Stella stared at Weston in silence. His gaze was intense, familiar — one she had seen countless times during their marriage, especially when he was losing control. The same look that once drove her to both love and fear him.
Mockingly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his eyebrows. He didn’t flinch. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the closeness, allowing her to touch his face freely. Weston, who typically disliked physical touch, had always been different when it came to her.
After a long moment of silence, she spoke in a low voice, “I’m curious. Does Guinevere not satisfy you?”
The air between them froze. The mention of another woman shattered whatever fragile warmth they had shared. What had once been a tender moment now felt cold, heavy, and full of unspeakable embarrassment.
Perhaps Weston didn’t see it as anything serious, but for Stella, it cut deep. Her mind struggled to accept the reality of her situation. What was she to him? Just the other woman, the one who lived in the shadow of Guinevere.
Weston’s expression shifted as his fingertips pressed against the corners of her mouth, his features gradually softening. “Do you realize you just ruined the mood?” he said, his voice a mix of irritation and something else, something she couldn’t quite place.
“Really?” Stella’s lips were tight, a faint frown crossing her face.
Weston released her, and neither of them seemed to have the appetite to continue eating. The once bountiful table now sat untouched, the air heavy with tension.
Joan, who had been waiting to clear the table, hesitated when she saw the change in the atmosphere. Weston shot her a glance. “Leave it,” he commanded.
“Yes, sir,” Joan replied quietly, though she didn’t understand what had caused the sudden shift in the mood.
Stella, not wanting to face him, retreated to the bathroom, taking a long bath in an attempt to avoid him. The enclosed space felt suffocating, but even in the solitude, something felt different today. Weston, normally unwilling to intrude, found himself pacing outside the door after a long silence.
He knocked, his voice laced with frustration. “Stella, are you trying to suffocate yourself?”
No response.
His eyebrows furrowed, and he called out again. “Stella, answer me!”
Still, there was no sound.
Worry crept into his expression, and his patience wore thin. His face darkened, and without a second thought, he kicked the door open with a loud bang.
The steam from the bathroom filled the air, and inside the bathtub, Stella lay still, her eyes closed. She was so quiet, so unnervingly still, that she almost looked as if she were sleeping.
Weston’s heart skipped a beat as an inexplicable fear gripped him. “Stella!” he shouted, panic rising in his chest.
Without thinking, he rushed to her side, pulling her out of the water and pinching her philtrum, desperate to get a reaction. “Are you insane?”
He immediately began to perform CPR, pressing down on her ribcage in a frantic attempt to revive her. After what felt like an eternity, she finally sputtered, coughing and gasping for air. Water spilled from her mouth as she choked and gagged.
“Cough!” She coughed harshly, trying to regain control of her breath.
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