She honestly didn’t expect the housekeeper to say yes, but the woman just nodded and respectfully opened the door to the guest room next door.
“Ma’am, this way please.”
Clara winced a little at the word “ma’am.” It was like a constant reminder that she was married now—an identity she still hadn’t settled into.
Annoyed, she stepped into the guest room and asked, “Can I have the room at the very end of the hall instead?”
The housekeeper dropped her gaze. “Please, ma’am, don’t make things difficult for us.”
Clara took a long, steadying breath. Clearly, this guest room was Dylan’s line in the sand.
As soon as the housekeeper left, Clara shut the door behind her and headed straight to the bathroom to soak in the tub.
But the longer she stayed in the hot water, the more restless she felt.
When she finally stepped out, her eyes drifted to the walk-in closet. It was packed with clothes in her size—every tag cut off, every shelf and rack filled. Dresses, bags, shoes, jewelry—everything, as if this thirty-square-meter closet had been designed just for her.
She sat on the edge of the bed, feeling numb, staring blankly out the window.
No matter how many times she tried to calm herself, everything still felt unreal, like she was stuck in someone else’s life.
She lost track of time. Night had fallen, and through the darkness, she caught the sweep of headlights outside—Dylan was back.
Downstairs, as Dylan came in, someone quickly reported to him,
“Madam had half a bowl of rice and a bowl of soup for dinner. She went upstairs two hours ago and is sleeping in the guest room.”
He just muttered an “Mm,” steering his wheelchair toward the elevator.
The housekeeper watched him, a little surprised. Mr. Brooks almost never came home drunk, but tonight, he’d clearly had a few too many. Even at work dinners, he usually kept himself in check.
She glanced at Aiden, who was changing his shoes. His voice was serious. “Take good care of—of the lady of the house from now on.”
He almost called her “Ms. Clara,” but caught himself.
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