When I stepped out of the gates, dazed and uncertain, a black Rolls-Royce waited at the curb.
Alaric stood beside it in silence.
Neither of us spoke during the entire ride home.
As I stepped out of the car, I turned back. “Thank you.”
He paused on the stairs, didn’t look back.
“Elysia,” he said coldly, “you’re such a jerk.”
I smiled.
And the tears fell.
Arianne’s child had survived.
But Alaric never brought her home again. Nor did he flaunt their affair in front of me anymore.
We lived under the same roof, yet moved like strangers in parallel lives.
When we crossed paths in the hallway, he didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at me.
He refused to eat anything I cooked.
I didn’t complain. I simply went on with my quiet routines.
A full month passed like that.
Then one night, there was a knock at my door.
When I opened it, he stood there—reeking of alcohol, eyes bloodshot.
“Let’s talk,” he said, voice hoarse.
I stepped aside, letting him in. For the first time in a long while, we sat together calmly, without pretense.
“Please,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m begging you. Testify for Seraphine.”
He swallowed hard.