Chapter 40– The Woman He Never Wanted to Change (Leonidas’ POV )

Leonidas stood at the edge of the ballroom, his sharp gaze cutting through the crowd. He wasn't here for the gala, the music, or the clinking of champagne glasses. He was here for her.

Anastasia.

She stood across the room, her posture unnaturally straight, her smile perfectly poised. She was practicing—again. He could see it in the way she tilted her head, the way she laughed just a fraction too late at a nobleman's joke. She was mimicking the women around her, the ones who moved with practiced grace and spoke with calculated charm.

It made his chest tighten.

This wasn't her. The Anastasia he knew was all fire and vulnerability, a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve even when it terrified her. She wasn't this polished, distant creature who seemed to be slipping further away from him every day.

He hated it.

---

Leonidas had first noticed the shift weeks ago. It was subtle at first—a hesitation in her touch, a guardedness in her eyes. She still came to him, still sought his presence, but it felt different. Like she was performing a role rather than being herself.

Tonight, it was worse.

She was practicing her posture in the mirror earlier, her shoulders stiff, her chin lifted in a way that looked painful. He'd watched from the doorway, his jaw clenching as she adjusted her stance again and again, muttering to herself.

"Elegant. Confident. Like them."

Like 'them'. The women who flitted around him at business meetings, their smiles sharp as knives, their words laced with hidden agendas. The women who meant nothing to him.

Why was she trying to be like them? Why was she erasing herself?

---

She hadn't touched him today. Not really.

When he'd reached for her hand earlier, she'd let him take it, but her fingers had been limp in his grasp. No warmth, no pressure. Just… nothing.

It was the same when he'd brushed a strand of hair from her face. She hadn't flinched, hadn't pulled away, but she hadn't leaned into his touch either. It was as if she'd built a wall between them, brick by brick, and he didn't know how to tear it down.

He wanted to shake her. To demand she look at him, really look at him, and tell him what was wrong. But he couldn't. Not here. Not like this.

---

He decided to test her.

As the music swelled, he crossed the room, his presence parting the crowd like a blade. When he reached her, he didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, his grip firm, his body pressing close.

"Dance with me," he said, his voice low, commanding.

She nodded, her smile polite, her movements graceful. Too graceful. She followed his lead perfectly, her steps measured, her body stiff in his arms.

He hated it.

"Anastasia," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "Relax."

She tensed further, her smile faltering for just a moment before she forced it back into place. "I'm fine," she said softly. "Really."

He didn't believe her.

---

Later, in the privacy of their chambers, he tried again.

She sat at the vanity, her back to him, her hands trembling as she tried to undo the intricate braids in her hair. He watched her for a moment, his chest aching at the sight. Then, without a word, he crossed the room and took the brush from her hands.

"Let me," he said.

She froze, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. For a moment, he thought she might refuse. But then she nodded, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

He worked slowly, carefully, his fingers gentle as he untangled the knots in her hair. It was an intimate act, one he'd never done for anyone else. He hoped she understood what it meant—that she was more to him than a pretty accessory, more than a pawn in his games.

When he was done, he set the brush aside and cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.

"You don't have to be like them," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "You never did."

Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away, her smile trembling. "I just… I want to be enough."

The words shattered something inside him.

It hit him then, like a punch to the gut. She was doing this because she thought she wasn't enough. Because she thought he wanted her to be someone else.

The thought made him sick.

When had she started believing this? When had she started seeing herself as less than the woman who had captivated him from the start?

He didn't know how to fix it. He wasn't good with words, with emotions. But he knew one thing—he couldn't lose her. Not like this. Not to her own doubts.

"Anastasia," he said, his voice breaking. "You've always been enough. You always will be."

She stared at him, her eyes wide, her lips parting in surprise. And for the first time in weeks, he saw a flicker of the woman he'd fallen for—the woman who wasn't afraid to feel, to love, to be herself.

He just hoped it wasn't too late to bring her back.