Jay didn't change overnight.
That was the strange part.
She still woke up early. Still moved softly through the mansion. Still spoke politely to the staff, still kept her eyes lowered when Jax was around. On the surface, nothing looked different.
But something inside her had gone very still.
She stopped waiting.
In the mornings, she no longer glanced at the dining table to see if his chair was occupied. She ate alone without noticing the emptiness. Food tasted the same, but expectation was gone—and with it, the quiet disappointment that used to sit in her chest.
When Jax passed her in the hall, she didn't look up anymore.
Not out of anger.
Not out of hurt.
Just… indifference.
It surprised her how peaceful that felt.
At night, she slept closer to the edge of the bed, not because she wanted distance, but because she finally claimed the space she occupied. When Jax came in late, she didn't stir. Didn't tense. Didn't listen to his movements like they mattered.
He was just another presence in the room.
Jay stopped wearing soft colors without realizing it. She chose neutral shades, simple clothes that were practical, not hopeful. She spent more time in the library, in the garden, in places where the mansion felt less like a reminder and more like a shelter.
She laughed once—quietly, at a book—and startled herself.
It had been a long time since she'd laughed without checking who might hear.
Jax noticed something, though he couldn't name it.
It wasn't something obvious. Jay had never demanded his attention, so there was nothing loud to miss. But now… the house felt different. Quieter in a way that didn't echo.
She no longer flinched when he entered a room.
She no longer adjusted herself around him.
Once, their hands brushed accidentally when passing each other near the staircase. Jay didn't pause. Didn't apologize. Didn't even look back. She simply kept walking, her steps steady, her face calm.
Jax stood there longer than necessary.
At dinner that evening, she didn't wait for him to start eating. She didn't glance at him once. When she finished, she stood up, nodded politely—like one would to a stranger—and left.
That small nod unsettled him more than any argument would have.
Because it said: I see you. And I don't need you.
Jay closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, breathing slowly. There was no dramatic breakdown. No tears soaking into pillows. Just a soft ache she acknowledged and let pass.
She had loved him quietly.
Now, she was letting go the same way.
That night, Jax spoke her name for the first time in days.
"Jay."
She paused at the doorway but didn't turn around immediately. When she did, her expression was gentle. Polite. Distant.
"Yes?"
One word. Nothing more.
Jax hesitated. He wasn't used to that. Used to silence, yes—but not this kind. This silence felt like a closed door rather than an empty room.
"Nothing," he said finally.
Jay nodded once. "Alright."
And she left.
For the first time since their marriage, Jax felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Not anger.
Not jealousy.
Something closer to loss.
And Jay, walking back to her quiet corner of the mansion, felt lighter than she had in a long time—because when you stop waiting for love, you finally learn how to breathe.