Chapter 6

The night had settled deep over the house, the rest of the rooms swallowed in shadow. Only the dining room still glowed faintly under a single, tired lamp.

Victoria rose from the cold floor, her joints stiff, the ill-fitting white gown hanging awkwardly from her frame. It looked wrong on her — wrong in size, wrong in spirit.

She stepped out of the empty room and found Sierra, the maid, half-asleep in a chair.

"Make another blueberry pie." Her voice was flat, stripped of any rise or fall.

Sierra blinked, startled. Her eyes caught on the swelling at Victoria's forehead, the streaks where tears had dried on her cheeks. "Madam, you…"

"Go."

Victoria's gaze was hollow, her tone carrying a quiet steel that left no space for refusal.

A shiver ran through Sierra. She turned and hurried toward the kitchen without another word.

Ten minutes later, a perfect blueberry pie sat before Victoria.

She picked up a silver fork, cut off a neat slice, and lifted it to her mouth.

The taste no longer triggered the wave of nausea it had before. Now there was only numbness. The syrupy sweetness slid down her throat. Her body reacted violently — the familiar allergic burn swelling her airway.

It itched.

The itch burrowed so deep it felt lodged in her bones.

Like dying.

Expressionless, Victoria lifted her hand and pressed her fingertips to the rash blooming along her arm. Without hesitation, she raked her nails down hard.

Skin split under the force, blood welling and staining the narrow spaces beneath her nails.

"Madam! Please, stop!" Sierra's voice broke into a sob as she rushed forward, horror in her eyes.

"Don't come closer."

Victoria kept chewing, swallowing mechanically, her free hand dragging over her neck, collarbone, arms in relentless scratches.

"This is what I deserve."

Her arms were crosshatched with bleeding welts, but the sharp sting pried her lungs open just enough to drag in air. This was how he made her pay. Edward had decided she had no right to scorn anything Anne loved. So she forced herself past the point of breaking, choking down what would poison her. Even if it killed her.

Only when the plate was empty did she set the fork down. She was covered in blood, her face unnervingly calm.

Dawn crept over Asteria City, Mantharic, but the sky stayed wrapped in a gray shroud, refusing to let the light in.

Victoria layered thick foundation over the stubborn rash along her face and neck. Her skin still burned beneath the makeup, but at least she no longer looked frightening.

She entered the master bedroom's walk-in closet and switched on the steamer. Hot vapor flooded the air, blurring her vision. She took Edward's tailored suit from its hanger and began smoothing every crease with practiced precision. Anne used to do this. So she would do it just as well.

Footsteps sounded behind her.

Edward had just stepped out of the shower, a towel slung low around his hips, water trailing down the ridges of his abdomen.

He paused in the doorway, his eyes catching on her silhouette.

For a moment, there was a flicker of disorientation — as if Anne had returned. A woman in a white dress, busy in the morning light, just as Anne had once described her married life.

Then she turned.

The illusion shattered. Her face was a map of rashes and scratches, her eyes vacant.

The warmth in his expression iced over into fury.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was cold enough to make her flinch. "Dressed like this at dawn, playing the devoted wife? Don't you realize how disgusting you look?"

Victoria set down the iron, lifted the suit in both hands, and offered it to him.

"I wanted to take care of you."

Her voice was hoarse from the allergic reaction, but steady. "This is for today. I chose a deep blue tie."

No protest. No plea. No emotion.

Edward's anger flared hotter at her quiet compliance. He knocked the suit from her hands. The expensive fabric crumpled against the floor.

"Take care of me?" He stepped closer, his eyes dropping to the white dress. Anne's dress. Now on Victoria — the woman he despised — stained with blood.

"You think you deserve that?"

His hand shot out, shoving her back into the ironing table. Her waist slammed into the edge, forcing a muffled sound of pain from her throat. She collapsed onto the table.

Edward leaned in, caging her between his arms, his bare chest radiating the heat of his shower. The closeness carried a sharp, aggressive energy.

Victoria looked at him, inches away.

He was angry.

He wanted release.

Anne had once told her that men under pressure or in pain needed an outlet. Anne wasn't here anymore. She was the substitute.

If it could make him feel better, even for a moment…

Her fingers trembled as they reached for the strap of her dress.

Under the weight of his contempt, she slid the strap down, exposing the rash-covered skin of her shoulder and chest.

"If you want…" she murmured, leaning back, arranging herself in a posture of surrender, "I can."

It was an invitation without dignity, cheap as a street transaction.

Edward froze.

He stared at her — at the way she stripped herself bare, her numbness wrapped around a pathetic attempt to please him. Disgust rolled through him.

"You think that's what I want?"

He recoiled as if burned, straightening sharply. His hand clamped around her arm and he flung her toward the corner like a piece of trash.

She hit the floor hard, her forehead smacking against it with a dull thud.

"You make me sick, Victoria."

He stood over her, his gaze angled down, sharp with disdain. "Is there nothing in your head but filth? You think taking off your clothes will make me look at you twice?"

"That's Anne's dress. You wear it to seduce her man? Do you have any shame at all?"

Victoria lay curled on the floor, pain knotting her body.

She hadn't been trying to seduce him.

She only… wanted to fulfill the role of a wife. If it could ease his pain, if it could give him even a second of relief, she would offer herself.

But to him, it was just vile.

"Put your clothes on and get out."

He turned his back, as if even the sight of her was contamination. "Don't think being my wife in name gives you the right to throw yourself at me. You're not worthy. You're revolting."

"And don't let me see you in that dress again. Take it off. Burn it. Anything you've tainted doesn't belong in Anne's house."

His footsteps faded. Silence returned to the closet.

Victoria pushed herself upright, pulling the fallen strap back into place.

She didn't cry.

She'd run out of tears yesterday.

She faced the mirror, taking in the woman reflected there — covered in rashes, the one who made him sick.

Ugly.

No wonder he hated her.

She slipped out of the white dress, folded it neatly, and set it aside. Her eyes searched the wardrobe.

At last, she chose a gray cashmere gown.

Gray. Anne's favorite when she was alive. Anne had said gray meant steadiness, humility, safety.

Victoria pulled the dress over her head, feeling as though it swallowed every mark, every rash, every trace of the person she had been.

She looked into the mirror and tugged at the corners of her mouth, shaping them into the smile Anne used to wear.