Melisa sat on the edge of the bed, half-asleep and minding her own peace when Leonard's voice crashed through her morning like a thrown stone.
"We're going home today."
That word—home—landed like a slap.
She blinked. "What?"
He didn't look up. Just straightened his watch like this wasn't a bombshell casually dropped before breakfast. "Mom called. Said they want to see you."
"See me?"
He nodded, serene as a lake in winter. "I have work now. Be ready by afternoon."
And then he was gone. Just like that. No further explanation. No room for discussion. Typical.
Melisa sat there in the hush that followed, the silence so thick it felt like a second blanket draped over her shoulders. She could still feel the weight of that word—home—pressing into her skin.
Eventually, she dragged herself into the bathroom. The water was hot, almost scalding, but it couldn't melt the knot sitting in her chest. It just made her skin sting a little—somehow, that helped.
When she came out, Leonard was already at the table, eating his breakfast with the elegance of a man who didn't know what awkwardness tasted like.
She took her time getting dressed—an emerald A-line midi that cinched her waist and flared just enough to look expensive but not trying. Paired with ivory heels and earrings barely worth a glance, she looked like the sort of woman who belonged beside him.
Not that anyone ever asked if she wanted to belong.
Melisa approached the table slowly, watching his fingers fly over his phone screen. Probably a hundred things more important than her.
"Leo, I think we need to talk."
He didn't look up. Just kept typing. One message. Then two. His expression was blank—professional, polite, and a little bit cold. Eventually, he nodded.
Go on. Amuse me.
"Why did you take Tristan's place as the groom?" she asked, her voice level, too level. If she didn't keep it flat, it might crack.
He set his phone down gently, like it might shatter if he moved too fast. His fork stilled.
"Tris ran away on the wedding day."
Just like that.
Melisa blinked. "He what?"
"Left a note," Leonard said, casually. "Didn't want to be tied down."
Tied down. That was rich, coming from someone who'd had everything handed to him in a ribbon-wrapped box.
She didn't respond right away. She was busy reorganizing her internal world. In the version of her life that had played out in dreams and sleepless nights, Tristan had stood at the altar. Not Leonard. Definitely not Leonard.
"Are you disappointed it was me instead of him?" he asked suddenly.
She looked at him. Really looked. His face was unreadable—still as glass, with a chill just beneath the surface.
"It doesn't matter who the groom is," she replied coolly. "Shouldn't you be asking why the bride changed?"
There it was. The unspoken truth between them, dropped like a thread neither of them was interested in tugging too hard.
He didn't react, not visibly. But his fingers did tighten ever so slightly around his coffee cup.
"Mom already told me," he said. A practiced line. Emotionless.
Ah. So he knew. Of course he did.
Melisa bit the inside of her cheek and gave a small nod. Of course Mother and Father hadn't shown up at the wedding. Probably too busy saving face. Or drinking champagne to mourn the loss of one daughter while repackaging the other.
Leonard stood. "I'm leaving now. There's a card on the table. Use it."
She stared at it. Gold lettering. Heavy. The kind of thing people slipped into designer bags and forgot about—until it paid the rent for six months.
When he reached the door, she picked it up and said, "Wait."
He paused, turning halfway.
"I have a job. I don't need this."
There was a beat of silence. Then, without a word, he walked back, took the card from her hands, and left.
No thanks. No argument. No drama.
And yet—it stung.
---
The day passed like a half-written paragraph. Empty space and too much punctuation. Melisa read for a while, mostly to avoid checking her phone. The hotel staff brought her lunch, which she barely touched.
She regretted taking the day off. At least work gave her something to pretend to care about.
By the time Leonard returned, the sky was soft gold, and she was curled up by the window, pretending to be somewhere else entirely. When she heard the door, she didn't move. Not right away.
"It's time," he said quietly.
She closed her book, nodded, and picked up her bag.
---
The car ride was mostly quiet—Leonard was never one for small talk. Melisa didn't mind. She spent the drive watching the world blur past her, each tree and streetlamp another tick toward inevitability.
Then the scenery changed. The city faded. The road stretched emptier.
And then—there it was.
The mansion stood like a memory she'd tried to bury. Gleaming white stone. Towering gates. Perfection preserved in time, just like always.
The gates opened. The staff stood at attention. Like clockwork.
"Welcome home, Elder Master and Young Mistress Soveir," said the butler, his voice lined with years of practiced civility.
Melisa stepped out slowly, unsure whether her feet would betray her.
"Uncle Theo," she said softly, her voice catching on the name. "You can still call me Miss Melisa."
The man gave a faint smile. Leonard didn't say anything, just gave the smallest nod and walked ahead, leaving her behind.
Melisa lingered for a moment with the butler—familiar, safe. Then she followed Leonard toward the mansion like a ghost chasing its own shadow.
At the threshold, Leonard stopped and turned, waiting.
Melisa stood frozen. Her pulse stumbled in her veins. She couldn't breathe.
Then she stepped forward.
Inside, the lighting was soft—too soft, like a trap. The kind of warmth that tricked you into feeling welcome.
Then a sound—a soft clink.
A teacup hitting porcelain.
And suddenly she was a child again. Small. Nervous. Unwanted.
She lifted her eyes.
Leonard's parents were there.
And they were waiting.