Before Sullivan returned that night, Abigail came downstairs, her steps light but cautious as she wandered through the sprawling mansion. The chandelier above her bathed everything in warm gold, the crystal pendants catching the light and scattering flecks across the marble floors like fragments of fallen stars. For a moment, she felt as though she were walking inside a dream—one too expensive, too elegant, too silent to truly belong to her.
She ran her fingers along the polished handrail as she descended, trying to memorize the quiet hum of the house. Trying to make all this unfamiliar grandeur feel a little less overwhelming.
The butler spotted her the moment she reached the last step.
"Good evening, milady," he greeted, bowing with a level of grace that only years of service could carve into a man.
Abigail offered him a polite, warm smile. "Good evening."
She hadn't expected kindness. She hadn't expected warmth. Yet the butler carried both like second nature. He guided her through the main floor of the mansion, explaining each hallway and room with gentle precision, as though his job tonight wasn't simply to inform her—but to temporarily ease her into this new, intimidating world.
He told her about the estate's structure:
the right wing with its maze of guest rooms,
the left wing reserved strictly for certain family members,
and the third floor—Sullivan's territory—where his study and private chambers were located.
Abigail nodded at every detail, trying to commit it all to memory without appearing overwhelmed. She listened as he explained the schedules, the household routine, the staff list, even the kitchen procedures with their exacting structure.
When dinner time came, Abigail politely asked if they should wait for Sullivan, though a part of her already knew the answer.
The butler's eyes lowered respectfully. "The master rarely eats with anyone, milady."
She simply nodded. She didn't argue. She didn't even frown.
Instead, she allowed herself to be seated at a long table that looked like it could host a royal banquet. The meal set before her was arranged beautifully—almost too beautifully to touch—but once she tasted it, her concerns melted on her tongue. The food was exquisite, warm, comforting.
She praised the chefs afterward, watching them blush behind their aprons. One of them even stuttered out, "Th-thank you, milady," as though her compliment had single-handedly validated his existence.
Dinner was lovely.
The silence that followed… less so.
And then—just as she finished her meal and the soft music faded into the background—a low, distant sound rumbled through the halls. The front doors opened.
Abigail lifted her head immediately.
Sullivan had returned.
She didn't know what she expected—maybe a greeting, maybe a glance, maybe something acknowledging she wasn't invisible. So she stood from her seat, smoothing her dress, and walked calmly toward the foyer.
He entered with his usual cold, effortless authority, shoulders squared, coat draped over his arm. The staff bowed the moment he stepped in, but his eyes barely skimmed the room.
Still, Abigail tried.
"Welcome back," she said softly, offering a polite, hopeful smile.
For a split second, his gaze flicked toward her—dark, unreadable, indifferent. It wasn't anger. It wasn't dislike.
It was nothing.
Pure, dismissive nothing.Without a word, without a nod, without even slowing his pace, Sullivan turned and headed straight for the staircase. His shoes clicked sharply against the marble as he ascended, each step a quiet, deliberate rejection.
Abigail stood at the bottom of the stairs, frozen for a heartbeat.
The butler gave her a sympathetic look.
She ignored it.
She refused to show hurt.
She straightened her posture, breathed deeply, and walked away with quiet dignity… though inside her, something small and disappointed began to twist.
She tried to ignore the sting of it, but every passing minute stretched thinner and thinner across her patience until it felt ready to tear.
Eventually, she could no longer sit still.
She wasn't a fragile girl who hid in her room, waiting for someone to remember she existed. If he refused to come to her, she would go to him.
With a slow inhale, she rose from her chair.
Her footsteps were soft as she climbed the grand staircase, her fingers brushing the polished rail.
Sullivan's door stood tall at the end. It looked like a door that belonged to a man who didn't welcome interruption—solid, silent, unapologetically imposing.
Her heartbeat swayed somewhere between nerves and irritation.
Still, she lifted her hand and knocked.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Silence stretched back.
She frowned and knocked again, this time firm nothing.
Not even a shift of footsteps inside. Not even a sign of life.
Her jaw clenched—not from anger, not yet, but from a sharp thread of confusion mixed with disbelief. She lifted her hand to knock one last time—
But hurried footsteps interrupted her.
The butler—always composed, always impeccable—was rushing toward her like he had sprinted across the mansion. His breathing was uneven, his forehead slightly damp.
"Milady!" he called, stopping just short of her. His voice held urgency she had never heard from him before.
Abigail blinked, startled. "What is it? Why are you running like that?"
He tried to straighten, but the tension in his posture remained. "The master instructed that he does not wish to be disturbed."
She stared at the closed door. "He didn't even answer. He's still inside."
The butler swallowed, then held up his phone.
"He… called."
Abigail's brain froze.
Called.
He called.
He called the butler from inside the room instead of saying a single sentence out loud?
She blinked slowly. Very slowly.
Inside her head, she unleashed an entire storm of unladylike vocabulary.
But outwardly, her smile was soft. Sweet. Almost angelic.
"I understand," she said. "Goodnight."
The butler visibly relaxed and bowed once more before retreating down the hallway.
Abigail didn't move at first. She just stood there, staring at the door as realization settled like cold water over her skin.
He ignored her.
On purpose.
Deliberately.
With full intention.
Her throat tightened, but she refused to let any of it show. She lifted her chin, exhaled calmly, and walked away with measured elegance.
Only the moment she shut the door to her room did the façade crumble.
She leaned back against the wood, breathing sharply through her nose. "Arrogant bastard," she muttered, her voice trembling with irritation.
"So he ignored me on purpose." She pushed off the door, pacing toward her bed. "Of course he did. Why not?"
She flopped onto the bed, the mattress bouncing as her hair spilled messily around her face.
"What does he think he is?" she grumbled aloud. "A king? This will be harder than I thought."
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She grabbed it before thinking and hit her parents' contact.
Her mother picked up after two rings. "Abi, sweetheart? Is everything okay?"
Abigail closed her eyes, gathering her scattered emotions. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. Steady. Controlled.
"Yes, Mom. Everything is fine."
Her father joined the call, his voice warm and reassuring. "Is everything going well? Are you comfortable over there?"
Abigail looked around the room—the expensive décor, the large bed, the warm lighting. Her frustration softened just a little.
"It's beautiful here," she admitted. "The staff are very kind. The food is incredible. Everything is… fine."
She didn't mention Sullivan.
She didn't mention the locked door.
She didn't mention the sting of being ignored.
Her parents didn't need that stress.
Her mother chuckled softly. "And Sullivan? How is he treating you?"
Abigail hesitated only a fraction of a second before smiling—a smile they couldn't see but could clearly hear.
"We're adjusting. But… I'll try my best. I'm going to make everything work out."
Her father sighed with relief. "That's our girl."
"Thank you," she whispered.
They chatted a little longer, exchanging small stories and gentle laughter before she finally hung up.
Abigail set the phone aside and exhaled deeply, letting the silence settle again.
Fine.
If Sullivan didn't want to talk tonight, that was his choice.
But she wasn't giving up.
She wasn't fragile.
She wasn't someone who broke at being ignored.
No.
She would make this marriage work.
Whether he cooperated or not.
With that quiet, burning determination settling into her chest, she crawled beneath the blankets, her eyes fluttering shut as the night wrapped around her like a silent challenge.
Tomorrow would be different.
She would make sure of it.