The decaying mansion breathed secrets, dust clinging to unspoken words and the heavy scent of antiseptic fighting a losing battle with the mustiness of ages. Tessa moved through its grand, hollow rooms like a ghost, her footsteps barely a whisper on the threadbare Persian rugs. Five years. Five years since she married him, exchanging her simple life for the gilded cage of the Hopkins name, only to find herself utterly alone.

He's awake. The light in his room. The thought, a frail bird, fluttered in her chest. Her breath hitched, a familiar tightening in her throat. She paused at the threshold, her hand, scarred and calloused despite her gentle touch, hovering over the cold doorknob. Her left arm throbbed, a dull ache beneath the fresh bandage. A clumsy fall, she'd explained to Mrs. Gable, the bewildered nurse who came by twice a week. A lie. Always a lie.

She smoothed her apron, a small, worn smile already curving her lips, ready to greet him. Just like she always did. Kindness. It was the only language she knew with him.

"Good morning, darling," she murmured, stepping inside. The room, once vibrant, now held the starkness of a hospital ward. Medical equipment hummed softly, a stark contrast to the baroque furniture. He lay in the specialized bed, his eyes, once so sharp and dismissive, now held a dull, distant glaze. Paralyzed. Bankrupt. Broken.

He averted his gaze, a phantom of their past cruelty in his posture, even now. He'd expected her to leave. She knew it. She'd sensed his surprise, then his grudging acceptance, as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months of her unwavering care. He'd called her a gold digger often enough in the early days. Mocked her for being useless. Told her she was a burden. He still thought her care was driven by some hidden motive, she suspected.