Guinevere stood motionless, her fingers curled at her sides as she struggled to contain the rising tide of emotion.
She had thought that simply sharing the same room with Weston would be a step forward—however small. She hadn’t expected intimacy or warmth, but she believed it could mark the beginning of something.
Yet, he wouldn’t even share a bed with her.
Weston lay on the sofa, his eyes closed, utterly indifferent to her presence.
Guinevere stood there for what felt like an eternity, gazing down at him. An ache, deep and bitter, crept into her chest. Her voice came out hoarse, trembling slightly.
“Weston… can’t we go back to how we were?”
She had asked him this once before, and once again, the answer didn’t change.
Without opening his eyes, his voice came low and cool. “We’ve always been like this, Gwen. You just forgot.”
Tears welled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks silently. He was right. Nothing had changed. She had always been chasing after him, while he remained just out of reach.
She let out a soft, self-deprecating smile. “At least you’re still here, aren’t you? One day… you’ll want me. Willingly.”
Weston said nothing.
She stared at him for a moment longer, then turned toward the bed. Quietly, she lifted the quilt and lay down, pulling the covers over herself.
In the deep silence of the night, Weston’s eyes opened.
Without a sound, he rose and walked out to the balcony, his thoughts tangled and heavy.
It was late—Stella was probably already asleep. Yet his mind kept circling back to her, to the call that had been abruptly cut off by Guinevere’s intrusion. For the first time, he felt the need to explain himself.
He never explained himself to anyone.
Except her.
Stella was different. She always had been. And that difference… left him helpless.
After a long pause, he finally sent her a text message.
[Weston: I’ll be back tomorrow.]
That was all. But he knew she would understand what it meant.
He stayed on the balcony, a cigarette burning between his fingers, waiting for the dawn to break.
By the time the sun rose, Weston had already left the house and gone to the office.
When Guinevere woke up, the room was empty. She looked around and frowned.
The sofa was untouched—no sign of anyone having slept there.
Her face hardened.
She stepped closer, staring down at it for a long moment, then suddenly kicked it with full force.
Her fury erupted all at once.
She had seen him last night, standing out on the balcony, phone in hand, sending someone a message. She didn’t need to guess who it was for. But she knew Weston would never admit it.
Still, the knowledge gnawed at her.
The noise she made in the morning quickly attracted attention throughout Ford Mansion. Within minutes, a servant approached with concern.
“Ms. Cohen, is everything alright? Do you need any help?”
Guinevere closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. “No, thank you.”
Her tone was distant, clipped.
After a moment, she turned, walked to the door, and made her way downstairs.
Wendy was sitting alone in the living room. Chris had already left early for the company.
The sight of Wendy’s calm figure somehow grounded Guinevere. A strange, unexpected peace settled over her—a quiet, perverse sense of satisfaction.
She walked over and greeted her politely.
“Good morning.”
Wendy looked up from her tea. “It’s getting late,” she said coolly.
Her voice was polite, but her manner had changed drastically from the affectionate image she’d shown when Mr. and Mrs. Cohen were around.
Guinevere noticed. Of course, she did.
Wendy had only been pretending in front of her parents. How could Guinevere not see through that act?
Still, she smiled and said nothing. No matter what, she had to be patient.
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