7. CHRISTOPHER H. (POV)

Sitting on my bed in the dark of the room, today’s memories weigh on my mind as I absentmindedly rub my wet hair with a towel.

I thought I could escape this place when I moved into my apartment in London, but my efforts were always in vain.

And once again, they’re pulling the strings on my body like I’m a damn puppet.

The moonlight coming through the window is faint, creating a gap in the shadows on the floor — one I’ve been staring at for the past five minutes, almost without blinking.

Water droplets fall from my hair despite trying to dry it.

Charlotte’s words echo in my mind for the tenth time since the party ended — and countless times since she left me standing in that garden.

Don’t want to be my wife?

Don’t want my love?

After all this time?

After so many years?

After everything I’ve endured because of her foolish, selfish whims?

I don’t believe it.

I don’t believe a damn thing Charlotte says.

With a sigh, I glance at my cell phone, noting the twelve missed calls from Evelyn, who’s probably pissed off waiting for me.

I should meet her tonight.

I was supposed to be at her apartment by now...

But instead, I sit on this old bed, trying to understand Charlotte’s mind.

Damn it.

I throw the phone aside and sigh again, running my hand through my damp hair. Despite my efforts, my thoughts circle back to Charlotte’s words and, worse... to her cold, resentful eyes at the altar.

“What is wrong with me?” I murmur to myself in the solitude of the room, my voice surprisingly hoarse, as if something’s caught in my throat, as if there’s a tightness in my chest I can’t quite place.

Why am I so surprised? This isn’t the first time she’s changed right before my eyes.

It has happened once before, and all because of Houghton.

I can understand why my grandfather always had a soft spot for her, I really do. Not only was she really cute, but she was the granddaughter of the man who saved his life. Perhaps to express his gratitude, he treated her like a princess who needed to be pampered and protected.

But his care knew no limits, expressed through extravagant gestures worthy of an Earl. For Charlotte’s thirteenth birthday — her first birthday here — he organized a princess-worthy party at Windsor Castle.

On another occasion, he brought snow in from Canada so she could enjoy a white Christmas during a particularly dry winter in England.

And when Charlotte briefly showed interest in ballet, my grandfather hired the principal dancer of a well-known dance company just to give her private lessons, risking the woman’s career.

The attempt to satisfy Charlotte felt never-ending.

Each of her desires was met with nearly overwhelming enthusiasm, and she never experienced anything negative.

Marshall never said “no” to her.

But it was different for me.

While Charlotte attended parties and ballet lessons, I was given advanced books and tutoring in Latin and classical Greek. The gifts I received were intended to prepare me for leadership and academic success, not out of sentimentalism.

Maybe that’s why our worlds are so different.

Charlotte grew up expecting the world to always fulfill her desires, while I learned that every privilege came with responsibilities and high expectations.

Despite these differences in our upbringing, Charlotte and I got along well. At first, I saw her as a little sister who needed protection and guidance, partly due to my grandfather’s affection and her sad past.

But when I least expected it, my grandfather made a decision that profoundly shook my world — he announced a forced engagement between Charlotte and me when she turned eighteen.

Just like that.

No room for discussion.

No concern about how I felt.

No hesitation.

Marshall just called me into his study, poured himself a glass of his favorite brandy, which he didn’t offer me, and told me plainly: “Charlotte will be your wife.”

I didn’t even show any reaction — not outwardly, at least. I’d been conditioned not to. Years of being shaped into the next head of the Houghton family had taught me to control my face, listen carefully, nod appropriately, and adapt...

But inside, something twisted.

Not because it was Charlotte...

But because it was decided for me.

The idea of an arranged marriage wasn't unusual in our family tradition, but picking Charlotte as my fiancée felt like a cruel twist of fate.

I thought it was some kind of joke, a dramatic gesture that would pass, but then he said it... “If you refuse, I’ll cut you off from the estate. From the company. From your inheritance. You won’t be my heir anymore.”

And just like that, my life — everything I had trained for, sacrificed for, and endured — was put on the table like a bargaining chip.

That was the moment I understood I was just a pawn.

The sweet, shy girl I once saw as a little sister had grown into a young woman willing to use every ounce of her power to trap me.

And she did so, for four long years.

Because of that, I had no choice but to marry her... Because Marshall made it clear that saying “no” would mean losing everything.

But now the wedding had finally arrived... and Charlotte didn’t look happy.

She seemed distant, calm, and resolute, nothing like her usual cheerful self. She should be over the moon about such an event, surrounded by all the attention and worship. But there she was, acting like it was all a... bother.

There was no joy in her eyes, only a kind of resignation blended with a purpose I couldn’t understand.

But she was the one who insisted on it.

She was the one who begged for it.

And I paid the damn price.

I’m stuck in this damn situation, trapped in a cursed engagement because of her — so what the fuck does she mean with that “I don’t want to be your wife” bullshit?

Hah, those words... they somehow trigger a flood of conflicting, messed-up feelings inside me.

It shouldn’t be a big deal... Actually, it's a good thing.

If I hadn’t been able to annul the engagement before, maybe now I can get a peaceful divorce...

A sudden chill creeps into my chest, causing me to flinch before a disbelieving laugh escapes.

“What the fuck...” I murmur with a sarcastic, humorless smile, “I must be losing my mind.”

No.

I’m not thinking about her right now.

I’m not—

Charlotte’s detached eyes break through my defenses and surface in my mind, despite all my efforts to keep her out, and those distant, cold eyes weigh heavily in my stomach in a way I’d never dare admit out loud.

Why am I feeling so distressed?

I can’t fucking believe it…

Even after everything, am I still letting that spoiled brat get under my skin?

“Just go fuck sleep, Christopher,” I murmur to myself, growling, turning around in the bed.

Yes, sleep.

I’m just annoyed to be back in this damn villa, that’s all.

Don’t think much about it.

I rest my arm over my face, fingers tugging at my hair to ground me. But even with my eyes closed, I can’t shake a strange unease and urge to talk to Charlotte.

Why? Why I feel like I could snap if I don’t see her fucking now?

I need to understand the real meaning of her words.

I need to find what she hides in those now opaque, cold, and distant eyes.

“I really lost my mind.” I quickly stand up and leave my room, not even bothering to close the door behind me.

I’m not usually impulsive, but my legs seem to have a mind of their own, moving me down the quiet hallway of the large estate.

The cold wooden floor creaks under my steps as I pass ancient portraits that hang on the walls, silent witnesses of many generations of our family. The house is quiet at this hour, and most guests have either gone to their rooms or are still celebrating in other halls.

But when I finally get to Charlotte’s bedroom door...

I hesitate for a moment.

I always hesitate.

But today, I don’t let my judgment get the better of me as it should.

I turn the knob without knocking and push the door open, instantly finding Charlotte still in her wedding dress, more beautiful than when I saw her at the altar...

And when her eyes fall on me, surprised and confused, a strange guilt cuts through my chest.