Chapter 37 – A House That Is Not a Home

Anastasia woke to the weight of his arm around her waist.

The night had been a blur of heat, desperation, and silent pleading.

She had given him everything, offered herself freely—because she had needed to.

Needed to prove she belonged somewhere, to someone.

Needed to remind herself that he still wanted her.

But in the aftermath of it, as dawn's pale light crept into the room, the truth settled in her chest like a stone.

Nothing had changed.

She was still adrift.

Still uncertain.

Still aching with something she did not understand.

Leonidas' breathing was steady, deep, content.

He had taken her, claimed her over and over again, until there had been nothing left of her except his name falling from her lips.

And yet, as she lay there, staring at the ceiling, she had never felt so alone.

---

She slipped out of bed carefully, moving slowly, deliberately.

His arm tightened around her instinctively, even in sleep, his fingers flexing against her skin as if refusing to let her go.

For a moment, she almost stilled.

Almost let herself stay.

But then, she remembered—this was not real.

She was not his to cherish.

She was not his to protect.

She was just his possession.

And someday, he would tire of her too.

Her throat burned, but she swallowed the feeling down, carefully untangling herself from his hold.

She moved through the room silently, dressing without a sound, pulling her hair back neatly, perfectly.

By the time she left, Leonidas had not stirred.

And she did not look back.

---

The house was quiet.

It was always so quiet in the mornings.

She used to find it comforting, this stillness.

Now, it felt empty.

She wandered through the halls, her fingers brushing the cool stone walls, the polished banisters.

This was her home now.

And yet—it wasn't.

It never had been.

She did not belong here.

She had tried.

God, she had tried.

She had done everything a wife was supposed to do.

She had been obedient, patient, devoted.

She had given him her body, her trust, her quiet surrender.

And still, she was not enough.

She knew it now.

Had always known it, deep down.

But now, she could not ignore it anymore.

---

The garden was where she ended up.

It was always the same.

When the house became too much, when the walls felt like they were closing in, she came here.

She found her favorite spot beneath the willow tree, the one place in the estate that felt untouched by him, unclaimed.

Here, she could breathe.

Or at least, she used to.

But today, even the air felt heavy.

She sat there, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the pale sky.

She wondered if she had made a mistake.

If all of this—this marriage, this life—had been a mistake.

She should have known better.

Her father had told her what she was worth.

Nothing.

And nothing could be turned into something.

Not even by a man as powerful as Leonidas.

---

A soft rustle made her still.

She wasn't alone.

A shadow fell over her, and before she even turned, she knew who it was.

Leonidas.

He stood just behind her, watching, silent.

She had no idea how long he had been there.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"You left the bed." His voice was low, unreadable.

She swallowed.

She did not look up.

Instead, she said, as evenly as she could—

"I didn't want to wake you."

A long pause.

Then, a slow, measured step closer.

"You always wake me."

Her breath caught.

There was something in his voice—a quiet accusation.

As if he had felt her absence in the way she had felt his for weeks.

As if he had missed her.

She didn't know why, but that thought made her stomach twist.

She finally looked up.

Leonidas' expression was calm, but his eyes—his eyes were not.

There was something dark there, something searching.

It sent a shiver through her.

"I just wanted to be outside for a while," she murmured.

His jaw tightened slightly.

"You've been coming here a lot lately."

She wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

She nodded anyway.

"I like it here."

He exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving her.

Then, after a long moment—

"You're unhappy."

Her heart stumbled.

She opened her mouth—

To deny it.

To lie.

To pretend.

But no words came.

Because he was right.

She was unhappy.

She had been unhappy for weeks.

And he knew it.

Of course, he knew it.

Leonidas was not a man who missed things.

But the fact that he had noticed—that he had said it aloud—

It terrified her.

Because if he knew, then what?

Would he be angry?

Would he cast her aside?

Would he tell her what she already knew—that she had never truly mattered at all?

Her hands clenched in the fabric of her dress.

"I'm fine," she whispered.

Lie.

Leonidas stared at her.

Then, to her shock, he crouched down in front of her, leveling their gazes.

She stiffened.

His hand lifted, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.

"You don't have to lie to me, Anastasia."

Her throat tightened.

She wished she could believe him.

But the truth was—he had never told her the full truth, either.

Not about her father.

Not about the letter.

Not about why he had married her at all.

So instead of answering, she looked away.

Leonidas' fingers curled under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes again.

His touch was gentle.

But his gaze—his gaze was anything but.

It was intense, sharp, searching.

As if he was trying to unravel her, piece by piece.

And she hated how easy it was for him to do that.

Hated that she wanted to break in front of him.

Hated that a part of her still longed for him to pull her close, to whisper that she was not alone.

But Leonidas was not a man who gave comfort.

He was a man who took.

And she had nothing left to give.

So she only whispered, "I'm tired."

He watched her for a long moment.

Then, finally, he nodded.

"Then rest."

And just like that, the moment was gone.

He stood, offering her his hand.

She hesitated—then took it.

And as he led her back inside, her heart remained exactly where she had left it.

Beneath the willow tree, buried in the dirt, waiting for something that would never come.