Chapter 36 – A Fragile Existence

Anastasia had always known what she was worth.

Or rather—what she was not.

A burden.

A girl who had failed at everything.

She had been too weak to be of use to her father, too timid to be a true noblewoman, too plain to be someone a man might actually want.

When Isabella had run away, it had been so easy for them to give her away in her place.

As if it made no difference which daughter they traded.

As if she had never mattered to them at all.

And now—now, she feared she did not matter to her husband either.

She had never expected love.

Never dared to hope for tenderness.

But she had thought—hoped—that if nothing else, he would keep his word.

That she had at least been worth something to him.

That by taking her, by choosing her, Leonidas had wanted something from her.

But after last night, she wasn't so sure anymore.

He had never answered her.

Had never even pretended to.

He had only given her one truth, the only one he seemed willing to share.

"I always intended to keep you, Anastasia."

Not protect.

Not cherish.

Not value.

Keep.

Like a possession.

Like an object, to be admired, used, and locked away.

Not because she was special.

Not because she was important.

Just because he wanted her.

And now—she was terrified.

Because what if even that desire faded?

What if even Leonidas no longer found her worth keeping?

---

She had spent most of the morning in silence.

She had barely spoken when the maid had come to serve her meals, barely touched her breakfast.

She was aware of the whispers in the halls.

The way the servants cast careful glances her way.

They had noticed.

They had seen how her husband's absence weighed on her, how she had begun walking through the halls like a ghost.

She had spent hours in the library, staring at books she wasn't reading.

She had sat by the window, watching the gates, waiting—waiting for something she didn't even understand.

But he did not come.

He did not send word.

And she did not ask.

---

By late afternoon, she felt sick with herself.

How pathetic.

How small.

She was waiting for a man who had already made it clear he had more important things to do.

She was nothing more than a convenience to him.

A pretty thing to warm his bed when he decided to come home.

That is all you have ever been good for.

Her father's voice echoed in her mind, a whisper of old wounds that had never truly healed.

"You are of no use to me. You never were."

"You are weak."

"At the very least, don't embarrass your family further."

"Do as you're told, and don't expect anything more."

A trembling breath left her lips.

She clutched her hands together, trying to stop the shaking.

She had been nothing before this marriage.

She had thought—**hoped—**that it might change things.

That she might finally have a place.

But maybe, she had been a fool.

Because she was still adrift, lost, unimportant.

Even now, her brother was trying to bring her back home.

Why?

Why now?

Why, after all this time?

Did her father regret giving her away?

Did he think she was causing trouble for Leonidas?

Was she failing even in this?

Was she not even good enough to be sold?

A cold, suffocating fear wrapped around her heart.

What if Leonidas let them take her?

What if he grew bored of her?

What if he decided she was not worth the effort?

What if she was truly nothing?

---

That evening, she forced herself to move.

She bathed, letting the hot water soak into her bones, trying to rid herself of the cold that had settled inside her.

She brushed her hair, taking extra care.

She chose one of the dresses he had given her—a soft, delicate thing of silk and lace, something she had never felt worthy of wearing before.

She could not let herself be cast aside.

She would not be discarded so easily.

She had to matter—at least to him.

Even if she never mattered to anyone else.

---

Leonidas returned late.

The house was quiet, most of the staff already asleep.

But she was waiting.

He found her in their bedroom, seated in front of the mirror, brushing through her hair with slow, deliberate strokes.

He watched her for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable.

She did not look at him.

But she could feel his gaze.

Slowly, he walked toward her, stopping just behind her chair.

His hands settled on the backrest, his fingers brushing the carved wood.

"You waited for me." His voice was quiet.

She swallowed.

"I wanted to."

He hummed, his hand lifting to touch her hair, twisting a lock around his finger.

"You dressed for me," he observed, his voice rougher now, lower.

She nodded.

His fingers trailed down her shoulder, barely touching her skin.

A shiver ran through her.

"You look beautiful, Ana," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear.

She closed her eyes.

"Leonidas..."

He exhaled slowly, his hands sliding lower, his fingers grazing the edge of her robe.

"Are you trying to seduce me, wife?"

A flicker of embarrassment burned through her.

But she did not look away.

Instead, she turned in her seat, facing him fully.

And then—she knelt before him.

He stilled.

Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for his belt, her fingers struggling with the buckle.

He did not stop her.

But he did not move to help her either.

She could feel his gaze, heavy and intense, watching her.

She bit her lip, her heart hammering against her ribs as she pressed her forehead against his abdomen, her fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt.

"Please," she whispered.

She felt him exhale sharply.

A moment later, his hands buried themselves in her hair, gripping the strands, tilting her face up.

His eyes were blazing, something raw and unreadable in them.

"Tell me what you want, Anastasia." His voice was rough, strained.

She forced herself to hold his gaze.

"To matter." Her voice was barely a breath.

His grip on her hair tightened.

And then—he pulled her up, his lips crashing into hers, devouring her, dragging her back into his world, his arms.

His kiss was desperate, possessive.

But it was not enough.

Not enough to chase away the fear clawing at her chest.

Not enough to make her forget that no matter what she did, she would never truly belong.

But tonight—tonight, she would let herself believe she did.

Even if it was just for a little while.