Chapter 3: Mr. Stefan Wants You To Burn The Clothes

Dorothy gasped as she stared at herself. These were Stefan's clothes? That meant the second wardrobe in the room belonged to Stefan, and by extension, she shared a room with him. Her palm flew to her mouth at the realization.

"I thought the room was mine," she mumbled. But as she spoke, Stefan's gaze grew even darker.

Dorothy sighed, feeling sad at the thought of giving up the comfortable clothes while silently cursing herself for messing up again. She had just married a grumpy, disabled man, accidentally wore his clothes, and now he looked even more displeased with her.

"I'm really sorry. I'll take it off, dry clean it, and put it back," Dorothy said, turning to leave. But Griffin stepped forward, stopping her.

"Mr. Stefan wants you to burn the clothes as well," Griffin said flatly.

"Huh?"

Dorothy turned back, shocked. She met Stefan's blank stare before looking at Griffin, who wore an equally lifeless expression. What was wrong with these people?

"He... wants me to burn it?" she stammered. If he wasn’t going to use the clothes anymore, couldn’t she just keep them?

Griffin’s serious expression made her sigh helplessly.

"But my clothes are uncomfortable. What am I supposed to wear?" she asked, her voice slow and uncertain.

"Young mistress, before Mr. Stefan married you, he conducted thorough research and ensured that every piece of clothing he bought for you perfectly fits your body size," Griffin replied, his tone impassive.

Dorothy had no argument left. "Fine, I'll take it off and do whatever you want," she mumbled, walking upstairs.

She paused in front of the mirror when she got to the room, looking at her reflection one last time. The clothes suited her so well. With a frustrated huff, she took them off, threw them angrily on the floor, and opened her wardrobe.

Not a single loose outfit. Everything was skimpy, tight, and fitted. Did Stefan just assume all women loved dressing like this? Even the shoes were exclusively high heels—she had never worn heels in her life.

After much deliberation, she decided on nightwear: a matching silk long sleeves shirt and shorts. She adjusted the outfit countless times, feeling self-conscious, and began wondering how she would ever leave the room.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it to find a maid standing there.

"I’m here to collect Mr. Stefan's discarded clothes to burn," the maid said.

Dorothy bit her lip and nodded, slowly picking up the clothes and handing them over. Inwardly, she was crying, cursing Stefan for wasting such good garments.

"What did I do now?" she asked herself, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Sharing a bedroom with Stefan was one thing, but she wasn’t ready to sleep with him.

"Relax, Dorothy. He wouldn’t try to sleep with you, right?" she whispered to herself.

"Why else did he marry you? There’s nothing you can offer except your body every night," a darker voice in her head countered.

"Wait, I’m ugly," she thought, recalling her mother’s words. No man would want to look at you, even if he’s crippled or mentally unstable.

The memory gave her a strange sense of comfort but hurt all the same.

Stefan's gaze darkened whenever he looked at her. He had been crippled since he was twenty-one; now he was thirty. Nine years of not speaking, not walking. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d been saddled with an "ugly loser" like her. That’s why he ordered the clothes to be burned—he couldn’t stand anything that touched her skin. Why would he ever want to sleep with her?

Dorothy’s reflection looked sad, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. A growl from her stomach reminded her she was hungry, so she left the room, still uncomfortable in her new outfit.

Stefan wasn’t in the living room, the dining room, or their bedroom. Curiosity crept in as she wondered where he could be, but she shook her head. It wasn’t her business.

At the dining table, she was greeted by an overwhelming spread of food. Surely they didn’t expect her to eat all this alone.

"May I ask when Stefan and Griffin will join me for dinner?" she asked a maid who arrived with another dish.

"Mr. Griffin doesn’t eat with the young master," the maid replied.

"What? Are you saying all this is for Stefan, and he finishes it?" Dorothy asked, incredulous.

"Sometimes, he doesn’t eat at all. I suggest you start eating and not wait for him. You can eat to your satisfaction," the maid said with a warm smile.

"But can you all join me? I can’t eat this alone," Dorothy said earnestly.

"You talk too much, young mistress. If you’re not going to eat, let us know so we can clear the table," Emily snapped as she walked by, dropping another dish.

"Come on, Emily. She’s just being nice. Lighten up," the first maid said, rolling her eyes.

Emily scoffed and walked away.

"She’s always moody around new people," the maid told Dorothy.

"Thank you. May I know your name?" Dorothy asked.

"I’m Tiffany. I’d love to chat, but I have work to do. I don’t want Emily to find a reason to scold me," Tiffany said before leaving.

Dorothy smiled, grabbed a plate, and began eating. It was the first time in a long while she’d tasted food so rich in spices and protein. She ate until she couldn’t anymore, then carried her plate to the kitchen.

"What are you doing? Don’t ever do that again," Tiffany scolded, taking the plate from her. "This is our job. Unless you want to get us fired."

"It’s okay. My mom raised me to do these things. I really don’t mind," Dorothy said gently.

"What’s your problem, young mistress? We don’t need help," Emily said sternly.

"Right, my bad," Dorothy said with a friendly smile, despite Emily glaring daggers at her.

"You should chill," Tiffany said to Emily as she cleaned up.

"I don’t like her. She acts like she’s pure, but she’s not," Emily muttered, making a face.

"Whether she’s acting or not, she’s Mr. Stefan’s wife," Tiffany reminded her.

"Whatever," Emily scoffed.

Dorothy frowned as she noticed an elevator in the hallway. She pressed the button and stepped inside. Just as the doors were closing, a maid called out in alarm.

"Young mistress, only Mr. Stefan is allowed to—" The doors shut, cutting her off.

"Which floor is the room again?" Dorothy muttered, trying to recall. She pressed the button for the fourth floor.

When the elevator stopped, the doors opened to a dimly lit, abandoned-looking space. The only light came from a half-open door at the end of the hallway.

Curious, Dorothy carefully stepped out and walked toward the door, peeking inside.