When Berth reached her chamber, she shut the door softly behind her—not a slam, just a quiet thud that echoed louder than it should have in the stillness.
For a moment she stood there, her back against the door, eyes closed. The silence pressed in from every corner, thick and suffocating.
Then the emotions she'd been holding back all evening began to bubble inside of her. A tangled flood of anger, weariness, and something dangerously close to despair.
Her hands trembled as she walked to the edge of the bed and sank onto it. The sheets were cool beneath her palms, but her chest burned.
Frustration—that was the first emotion tugging desperately in her chest, the faint urge to just give up on this marriage, which seemed to have ended before it even began.
Then came the ache, the hollow loneliness that sat somewhere deep inside her ribs. And beneath it all, a desperate urge to stop pretending, to stop trying, and to just let this broken marriage fall apart.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing the tears not to fall. What good would crying do?
She rose to her feet slowly, her movement graceful but heavy with weariness. The hem of her gown brushed softly against the floor as she crossed the chamber.
Stopping before the mirror, she stared at her reflection. The woman looking back at her seemed like a stranger: pale, tired, with eyes rimmed with the faint glimmer of tears she had refused to shed.
She hated what she saw.
Because that face betrayed her, revealing every emotion she fought so hard to conceal. The quiet ache, the humiliation, the loneliness of a heart unloved.
The tears tugged at the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall.
"No," she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling as she reached for the small box on the dresser.
She opened it, her fingers brushing the familiar feel of the powder puff. With hurried, practiced motions, she dabbed her cheeks, masking the redness and hiding the evidence of tears.
Then she smoothed her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear, forcing the mirror to reflect the composed, unbreakable woman she needed to be.
For a long moment, she stood there—face powdered, hair neat, eyes cold again, a fragile calm settled over her, though deep inside, the storm still raged.
"Be strong," she whispered to her reflection. "Persevere."
As she stood there, staring at her reflection, her mind began to drift to that day in the market.
She could still hear the woman's voice, sharp and cruel, cutting through the hum of the crowd like a blade: "Barren."
The word had clung to her ever since… heavy, poisonous. At first, she had felt nothing, only a hollow numbness spreading through her chest. But now, recalling it, her brows drew together in quiet fury.
Barren. As though she had chosen this emptiness. As though she even wanted a child in the first place, but now she had to want one, just to keep their lashing tongues silent.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles paling beneath her skin.
Just then Marymanda's lessons came rushing back to her: the soft laughter, the whispered advice, the practiced tilt of her chin, and the art of seduction she had once been taught.
All of it, every effort, had been for him.
She looked back at her reflection—at the powdered cheeks and the neatly arranged hair—and a bitter smile curved her lips.
"All that won't go to waste," she murmured under her breath.
Suddenly a knock came on the door.
The soft knock startled her.
She froze, her hand still resting on the dresser. For a second, she thought she had imagined it—but then it came again, gentler this time.
"Berth…"
Her name, spoken in his voice, low and hesitant, drifted through the door. She turned slowly, her gaze fixing on the carved wooden door as though she could see him through it.
Why did he come? Leaving his dinner to come after her—what an irony.
Her pulse quickened; she gazed at her reflection once more in the mirror again… Everything was in place.
Drawing in a steady breath, she smoothed the front of her gown and brushed invisible dust from her sleeve.
She sat on the cushioned stool before the mirror, her reflection calm yet distant. With a low, steady voice she said…
"Come in," before reaching for a small bottle of oil resting on the dressing table.
The door nudged open, and he stepped in quietly, his presence reflected in the mirror before her eyes even lifted.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then she broke it first.
"You didn't finish dinner?" She asked gracefully, her smile poised and practiced.
He gazed at her, a glint of guilt flickering in his eyes. His hands moved behind his back, fingers locking as if to steady himself.
"No…" he began, pausing before drawing a quiet breath.
"I will return—but first, I want to speak with you."
"But your food might get cold," she said, her tone light yet deliberate. Lifting the hem of her gown, she revealed the smooth length of her legs and began to massage the oil gently.
Her long fingers moved with slow grace, tracing along her skin until it glistened under the flicker of candlelight.
He let his gaze linger on her legs for a fleeting moment before looking away.
"Your outburst back at the table…" he began, his voice low as he exhaled a weary sigh.
"I'm sorry," she interjected quickly, lifting her gown a little higher, the fabric sliding up to her thighs as if to distract from her words
"I didn't mean any of the things I said. Forget about it," she cooed softly, her voice carrying a calm that seemed almost rehearsed. Her gaze followed the quiet movement of his eyes, studying the way he tried not to look at her.
"Is it true? You think I don't care or bother to ask about you?"
"That's not what I said."
Berth said with denial laced in her voice.
"But that's what you meant."
Dickson's deep voice echoed in the room, and for a while there was silence.
Inadvertently, his gaze fell on her—the gown now drawn up to her thighs. Realizing it, he looked away at once and cleared his throat, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet room.
"I will take my leave," he said at last, turning toward the door.
Panic flickered across her face as she shot to her feet.
"No!—I mean…" She faltered, forcing a faint smile.
"Are you ready for bed?" she asked, her tone light, almost casual, her lips curving into a small, practiced smile.
She didn't give him the chance to answer before turning slightly, busying herself with adjusting the folds of the bedsheet—anything to avoid his eyes.
He blinked, caught off guard. Of all the things he expected—reproach, cold silence, maybe even tears—this wasn't one of them.
She looked perfectly calm; the soft lamplight glimmered on her face. No hint of anger, no tremor in her voice. Only that faint, composed smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
He stood there watching her, a touch of astonishment flickering in his gaze. She was that good at hiding it… the hurt, the resentment, and the weariness that simmered just beneath her stillness.
And in that moment, he realized he had no idea what she truly felt anymore.
"This isn't where I sleep, remember?"
His words were gentle, but they cut through the quiet like a blade.
She paused, the faint smile faltering. She stood motionless, her back half-turned to him.
"Yes," she said softly, after a moment. "I remember."
She turned to face him fully. Her expression was calm, but her eyes, though steady, carried something deeper: determination mingled with quiet hurt.
He had already begun to step back, as though retreating from something fragile.
"Must we continue that way?" she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
"Sleeping apart, pretending this distance is... normal?"
She took a small step closer, fingers clasped before her.
"You've been away for so long," she continued, forcing steadiness into her voice.
"You could at least stay tonight. Just... here."
For the first time since he'd entered, her composure wavered.
"You decided that we should sleep apart."
He said quietly, his tone even, stripped of any accusation.
"I do not wish to cause you any inconveniences."
He hadn't meant for his words to sound that way, but months of distance had made gentleness difficult.
He turned to leave.
His hand had just touched the door handle when her voice stopped him.
"Don't go."