Lying in bed, I didn’t toss and turn as I’d imagined.
Perhaps because my heart was dead, my body had activated its self-protection.
At two a.m., I got up for water.
Opening the door, the living room light was off, leaving only a floor lamp spilling dim yellow light onto a corner of the sofa.
Low voices came from the other end.
"Frederick, am I a burden?"
"Don’t think like that. You never will be."
"In my heart, you’ll always be that little girl who needs protection."
"But Miss Sinclair…, she seems unhappy. Her face was so cold when she came back. Does she hate me?"
I heard Frederick rustle the blanket around her.
"That’s just her personality—cold and aloof, a workaholic. Always staring at blueprints and construction sites, long forgetting how to speak gently. Don’t worry; she’ll be fine in a couple of days. She’s reasonable—she won’t actually kick you out."
I stood in the dark corridor, fingers stiff around the glass of water.
Cold and aloof.
Workaholic.
So, in his eyes, my calm independence and tireless work for our future were flaws—easy to belittle, even to complain about to another woman.