Chapter Eleven: Red

The ballroom lights had dimmed hours ago, but their flicker lingered in Jenny's mind like a cruel reminder of everything she wasn't allowed to be.

She stood by the long mirror in her chamber, her gown pooled at her feet in soft waves of silk and dusted glitter, her corset loosened, shoulders bare beneath the sheer slip she wore beneath it. She was tired, so exhausted, not from dancing but from holding her head up while Evelyne's voice echoed in every corner of the room, pretending to be the one who belonged at Ramon's side.

Behind her, the door creaked.

She turned swiftly, startled.

Ramon stood in the doorway, his cravat undone, waistcoat discarded, eyes bloodshot.

"Ramon?" Her voice was hushed.

He stepped in, his movements unsteady, the smell of wine trailing him. He didn't answer at first. He just looked at her. Looked and didn't blink. Then closed the door behind him.

"You shouldn't be here," she said quietly, clutching the fabric at her chest.

He walked toward her. "You looked so beautiful tonight."

Jenny stepped back. "You're drunk."

He nodded, slow. "Aren't I always? When I want to forget?"

"Forget what?"

"You. Her. Myself."

His gaze dropped to her bare shoulders. The moonlight had bathed her in a silver glow. Her hair cascaded like a waterfall down her back, the sheer chemise clinging to the curves of her body. He swallowed hard.

"You are my wife," he murmured.

Jenny's breath caught.

He reached out, fingertips grazing the silk at her arm. Her instinct was to pull away, but something in his touch was different longing, broken, yet laced with something volatile.

"You belong to me," he said, voice hoarse.

"No, I don't," she whispered. "Not like this."

He cupped her face, and for a second, she thought he might kiss her might lean in and weep or beg or break. But instead, he pressed her back toward the wall, hands trembling at her sides.

"Ramon," she breathed, panic rising in her chest.

"I don't want to feel this," he muttered. "I don't want to want you."

Her hands pressed against his chest, but he leaned in, pinning her with his weight.

She felt it before she could fight it the moment her no became silence, the moment her fear wasn't heard.

It was pain.

More than physical. Deep. A tearing inside her. Her first time stolen, not given. The mirrored wall bore witness to her stillness, to the way her eyes never shut. To the sound of her not crying.

When he finished, he fell back as if waking from a nightmare.

"Oh God..." he whispered. "Jenny."

She didn't speak. She pulled the sheet around her, still sitting on the floor. Her body throbbed. Her soul screamed.

He knelt beside her, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry... I didn't... I don't know what came over me"

She didn't move.

He wrapped a robe around her and lifted her gently. She didn't resist but didn't look at him either. As if he were the stranger she always feared he might be.

"Anna," he called hoarsely. "Draw a bath. Now."

He carried her to the tub as the maid brought hot water. He bathed her in silence, carefully wiping away the blood on her thighs with a trembling cloth. She said nothing.

He whispered apologies between each motion. His hands were gentle now but too late. When he tried to meet her eyes, she turned away.

That night, he watched her fall asleep, curled in his robe, arms folded across her chest like she was holding herself together. He stayed by the fire until the sky lightened.

The next morning, he brought a tray with her favorite tea,

he remembered now. Jasmine and ginger. He watched her sip it in silence.

"Jenny," he said, kneeling. "What I did... It was unforgivable. I don't expect your forgiveness. But I will spend the rest of my days earning the right to be in your presence again."

She looked at him then. Not as her husband. Not even as her attacker. But as a man who had broken something sacred between them.

And yet, she saw remorse. Real. Raw.

"I don't need you to grovel," she whispered. "I need you to change."

The next evening, he came to her chamber again. This time, he knocked. She opened the door herself.

He looked clean, composed. No wine. No madness. Just him.

"May I sit?" he asked.

She nodded.

They talked for over an hour about the ball, about Grace, about Evelyne. About guilt.

And when she reached out to touch his hand, something unspoken passed between them.

That night, when they lay together, it was different.

His kisses were slow, uncertain. His fingers traced her face as if memorizing it. He asked if he could touch her. She said yes.

Their lovemaking was soft. Healing. A painful kind of beautiful.

After, he held her.

"I never knew love could look like this," he murmured.

Jenny, still aching but no longer hollow, rested her head against his chest.

"It doesn't. Not yet," she said.

"But maybe," she whispered, "someday."