Behind closed Doors.

The mansion stood still under a sky wrapped in storm-colored silence. When Emma returned that evening, the gates opened without the usual noise, as if even the iron had grown weary of protest.

Inside, the air was hushed, thick with an unnamed dread. Lights flickered faintly overhead, and the hall smelled faintly of aged wood and something colder — something like absence.

A maid approached as Emma stepped into the foyer, her posture stiff, gaze lowered.

"Ma'am," the girl said quietly, "Mr. Wolfe won't be home tonight."

Emma paused mid-step. "Oh," she said, and nothing more.

The maid didn't offer explanation, nor did Emma expect one. The mansion didn't run on answers — only silence.

That night, the rooms felt unfamiliar. Not because they had changed, but because for the first time, Emma noticed how much of herself she tried to shrink away. She stayed in her room, fingers wrapped around a cup of untouched tea, watching the shadows play on the walls.

But morning came different.

Light poured into her window like it had forgotten the coldness of the night. She stirred from bed, dressed slowly and wandered into the kitchen. For once, she cooked for herself — something simple, something that reminded her she was still human. Toast. Soft-boiled eggs. Tea. There was something healing about holding warmth in her hands that she had made herself.

She laid the breakfast out on the long, polished table, porcelain glinting in the quiet.

And then—footsteps.

Slow. Steady. Not a ghost.

Emma turned, breath caught in her throat.

Alexander stood in the doorway, immaculate as always, but with hair slightly tousled, as if he hadn't slept.

"You're back," she said, more statement than question.

He said nothing for a beat. His eyes swept the table. He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down without hesitation. "Then I suppose I'll have what you're having."

She tensed. "It's really nothing. Just… I wasn't expecting anyone—"

He was already reaching for a plate, helping himself to a piece of toast and eggs.

Emma looked away, her heart thudding. She didn't want him to eat it — not because it wasn't good, but because it felt too intimate, too honest. It wasn't something prepared for a man like him — it was something she'd made because she was lonely.

Still, Alexander reached for a fork, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully.

Emma sat frozen across from him, unsure what to say or whether to say anything at all.

Emma's stomach tightened, but she didn't reply. She finished quickly, excused herself, and left for university, walking faster than usual.

The world outside was still loud and chaotic, but today, it felt farther away.

By evening, she returned. But the quiet that welcomed her this time wasn't soft. It was razor-thin, sharp with the edge of something just beneath the surface.

The parlor doors were open.

She hadn't meant to walk toward them, but her feet moved anyway — pulled by the unmistakable sound of tension, of voices that cut instead of spoke.

Miley Wolfe stood in the center of the room, dressed like mourning incarnate in black satin and pearls. Across from her stood Alexander, still in his shirt sleeves, his posture taut but unshaken.

Emma froze in the threshold.

"I told them to follow through," Miley was saying, her voice as smooth and cold as glass. "They needed reminding of what happens when chaos is entertained."

Alexander didn't speak.

Emma tried to retreat, silently, but the floor betrayed her. A floorboard creaked.

Alexander turned slightly. "Emma."

His voice was quiet, but it stopped her heart mid-beat.

Miley turned too. And Emma wished she hadn't.

Because the look in the woman's eyes wasn't merely cold.

It was hatred — quiet, patient, venomous.

"Well," Miley said, stepping forward as if observing a painting she didn't care for. "The porcelain girl returns. I wondered how long it would take before she wandered back into the fire."

Emma said nothing, pulse thudding in her ears.

Emma said nothing, her fingers tightening around her bag.

Then, suddenly, Miley's voice turned sharp, slicing through the air.

"Yes, I ordered the man to lock her up," she snapped, glaring at Alexander.

Emma's breath caught in her throat.

The room tilted.

She had suspected many things — but hearing it, the truth, spoken aloud like a casual confession of cruelty, ripped something inside her.

Emma's fingers trembled at her sides. Her voice caught behind her ribs.

"I—" she began.

But Miley's voice sharpened. "You don't speak until spoken to."

The older woman drew closer, eyes glittering. "You are nothing more than a shadow of the girl your family stole from us. Your sister was meant to be a Wolfe. Not you. But she disgraced herself — and we were left with you. Do you think I don't see it?"

Alexander didn't move. He didn't argue. His face remained blank — a mask she couldn't read. She looked to Alexander— searching for a flinch, for outrage. But there was nothing. His expression remained carved from stone.

He didn't deny it. Didn't defend her. Didn't react.

"It wasn't my fault," she whispered, barely audible. "I didn't— I never asked—"

Miley's voice cracked like a whip.

"Know your place, girl. And act like it."

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

Emma's vision blurred. Not from rage. Not from defiance.

But grief.

She had stayed silent the day her father agreed to the arrangement.

She had stayed silent on the wedding day, beneath the gaze of strangers and a husband who wouldn't even look at her.

She had stayed silent every day since, playing her part, folding herself into corners.

But the tears refused to obey.

One fell. Then another.

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality. Emma turned the lock.

The silence in her bedroom was complete — no voices, no footsteps, no accusations. Just stillness.

She let the silence cradle her as she slid to the floor, her back pressed to the cold wood. Her shoulders curled inward, her arms wrapped around her knees. The tears had dried, but the weight of them still lingered beneath her eyes.

She hadn't been strong enough to speak back. Not to Miley. Not to Alexander.

Especially not to him.

Her stomach twisted, but she ignored it. Hunger had become background noise.

When a soft knock came a few hours later, she didn't respond.

"Madam Emma," came the gentle voice of one of the maids. "Your dinner..."

No answer.

After a pause, the sound of retreating footsteps followed. The tray was left untouched outside the door.

The next morning passed the same way. A new day, a new tray. Still untouched.

Two days passed.

The house had grown colder in Emma's absence. No quiet rustling in the morning. No soft clatter of dishes she insisted on carrying herself. No hum of life from the third-floor room.

And that was when Elijah Wolfe returned.

He arrived unannounced, as he often did — a duffel slung over his shoulder, sunglasses perched on his nose, dragging in energy like a sudden storm.

"I need a break from her," he muttered to the driver, meaning their mother, as he strode inside. "I swear she's suffocating me with every breath."

The butler bowed low, startled. "Young Master Elijah... your room is prepared."

Elijah had barely stepped over the threshold when the maid approached him, hesitant. "Young master, Madam Emma… she hasn't come out of her room. Not for two days."

Elijah froze. "What?"

"She won't eat. She won't speak."

His mouth tightened. "Did anyone tell Alexander?"

The maid swallowed. "Yes, sir. But he… he said nothing."

With a curse under his breath, Elijah marched down the corridor, storming straight into the drawing room, where Alexander sat in a high-backed leather chair, a book in his hand and a fire flickering behind him.

"You're unbelievable," Elijah snapped.

Alexander didn't look up. "Hello to you too."

"I'm serious," Elijah said. "She's locked herself in her room. Two days, Xander. No food. No sound. Nothing."

A pause. Alexander turned a page.

"Then she wants to be alone," he said simply.

"God, do you even hear yourself?" Elijah stepped closer, his tone sharp. "She's your wife. Or have you forgotten?"

Alexander's eyes lifted for a moment. "She knows the door isn't locked from the outside."

"But it might as well be," Elijah shot back.

Alexander set the book aside, finally looking up — calm, collected, unreadable. "I didn't ask her to speak. Or stay. Or leave. She does as she wishes."

Elijah stared at him, disgusted.

"You know, I used to think you were cold because you were smart," he said bitterly. "But now? I just think you're scared to feel anything."

Alexander's jaw flexed slightly — the only sign of impact — but he said nothing.