Lydia's mornings had begun to follow a predictable rhythm: wake, dress, rehearse manners, review guest lists. She moved through the East Wing with a quiet determination, reminding herself constantly that she was here to survive, not to get lost in emotions she could not afford.
Yet, today felt different.
She had barely reached the study when the sound of laughter stopped her in her tracks. Turning the corner, she caught sight of Malik talking to a woman who was impossibly familiar—tall, elegant, with a laugh that filled the room like it belonged there.
Lydia's stomach twisted. She didn't know why, but something about the scene made her heart tighten. The woman leaned closer to Malik, her hand brushing his arm, and he didn't pull away. He didn't smile, not in a romantic way, but there was an ease in his posture that Lydia had never seen when he was with her.
Her fingers curled into fists. It's nothing, she told herself. He's just… polite. It's business.
But the whispers of doubt had already taken root.
Malik noticed her immediately, his sharp gaze slicing across the room. The other woman straightened, glancing at Lydia with a faint, amused smile.
"This is Lydia," Malik said simply, as if that one word could explain everything. "She is my wife."
The woman's smile faltered just slightly, but she nodded gracefully. "Of course. My apologies."
Lydia felt heat rise to her cheeks. Wife. That word felt heavier now, weighted with possessiveness she hadn't expected. She wanted to step forward, to assert herself, but the contract reminded her: boundaries. Observe. Speak when necessary.
Malik turned his attention back to the woman, speaking in low tones Lydia couldn't catch. The ease between them was maddening. He had been distant with her for months, controlled and cold, and yet here… here he seemed relaxed, almost human.
Unable to bear it, Lydia excused herself, retreating down the hall and into the quiet of the East Wing. She pressed her palms to her face, trying to calm the surge of frustration and jealousy threatening to spill over. She had no right to feel this way—after all, their arrangement had always been clear. No feelings. No interference. No crossed lines.
But feelings, as Lydia had learned in the past few days, didn't follow contracts.
Later, in the solitude of her room, she reviewed the etiquette manual Malik had left behind. She repeated phrases under her breath, practiced smiles in the mirror, and reminded herself of the rules:
Observe. Respond only when necessary. Do not overstep.
And yet, every time she thought of him with that woman, her chest tightened, her hands trembled slightly, and the carefully controlled mask of obedience threatened to crack.
Because it wasn't just about appearances anymore. It was about her heart. And no contract could keep that in line.