The morning had barely started, and already his freshly pressed shirt had come back from. the laundry wrinkled, smelling faintly of vinegar. His slacks were shrunk two sizes too small, and his socks–his expensive, imported ones–were nowhere to be found.
He stormed into the hallway, where the newest nanny, a young man barely in his twenties, was folding towels incorrectly on the marble bench.
“You call this work?” Bradley snapped, tossing the crumpled shirt at him. “This is your sixth mistake this week!”
The young man stuttered. “Sir, I—”
“You’re fired. Pack your things and get out. Now.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He simply turned on his heel and marched back into the living room, where Maine sat at the glass dining table, her nails freshly done, scrolling through a wedding catalog.
“That’s the sixth one, Bradley,” she said flatly, not even looking up. “You’ve gone through house staff like socks.”
“Then maybe we should start hiring people who aren’t completely useless,” he barked. Maine raised a brow. “Or maybe,” she said calmly, “you could work on your patience.” Bradley scoffed. “What do you want me to do? Do everything myself?”
“Well, considering no one wants to stay here for more than a week,” she said, closing the catalog. “Maybe you should be the one doing the laundry and ironing.”
Bradley’s glare cut through the room. “Maybe you should.”
Maine stopped cold. “Excuse me?”
He crossed his arms. “You want to be my wife, don’t you? You keep saying this wedding is your dream. You want to be in this house, in this life–then maybe it’s time you start acting like it.”
“You mean like a nanny?” Maine said, laughing in disbelief. “You’re saying I should be your maid?”
“Why not?” Bradley challenged. “That’s what Joyce did. She cooked, cleaned, folded our clothes, ran the house. That’s what being a wife looks like, doesn’t it?”
Maine’s eyes darkened. “So now you want me to become another Joyce?”
“Yes!” he snapped. “She made this house work. She made me function. And if you want to be here, if you want the title, then earg it like she did!”
Maine stepped back, blinking in slow disbelief before laughter bubbled up–not the amused kind, but cold and sharp.
“You know,” she said, her voice soft and venom–laced, “this is exactly why I didn’t want to be your legal wife before. Because I knew this would happen. You’d expect me to de
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like it.”
“You mean like a nanny?” Maine said, laughing in disbelief. “You’re saying I should be your maid?”
“Why not?” Bradley challenged. “That’s what Joyce did. She cooked, cleaned, folded our clothes, ran the house. That’s what being a wife looks like, doesn’t it?”
Maine’s eyes darkened. “So now you want me to become another Joyce?”
“Yes!” he snapped. “She made this house work. She made me function. And if you want to be here, if you want the title, then earn it like she did!”
Maine stepped back, blinking in slow disbelief before laughter bubbled up–not the amused kind, but cold and sharp.
“You know,” she said, her voice soft and venom–laced, “this is exactly why I didn’t want to be your legal wife before. Because I knew this would happen. You’d expect me to trade
stilettos for aprons, power meetings for dishwashing. You want to marry me–then turn me into a maid? No. I am not her, Bradley.”
Bradley’s voice was louder now, fueled by frustration. “You said you loved me.”
“I did. And maybe I still do,” Maine snapped. “But not enough to shrink into a version of myself that makes you comfortable.”
He looked at her, jaw tight. “You pity Joyce now? Is that it?”
“Yes,” she said. “I pity her. Because she gave everything to you. And you bled her dry.”
Bradley scoffed, crossing his arms.
“She left because she was tired, Bradley,” Maine said. “Not just tired. Exhausted. You neglected her. Ignored her. You adored me in front of her face. You humiliated her, over and over, until there was nothing left.”
“So now I’m the villain?” Bradley snapped. “You’re accusing me?”
“Yes!” Maine shouted. “Because now that she’s gone, you want me to take her place. You want me to become the woman you let wither away! And don’t think I haven’t noticed–you moaning her name in your sleep. You keeping her perfume bottle in the drawer. You staring at her photos online.”
Bradley went quiet.
“I see it,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I see it all.”
“What are you trying to say?” Bradley muttered. “Didn’t I choose you? Didn’t I ask you to marry me?”
“You asked me,” she said, “because she didn’t. Because she left you. And you think if you shape me into her image, you’ll get that comfort back.”
Maine stared at him hard, her voice trembling not from fear–but from fury. “But I will not become her.”
“So what now?” Bradley asked. “You’re calling off the wedding?”
She gave a bitter smile. “Yes. If marrying you means losing myself, then yes. It’s off.”
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sne left because she was tired, bradley, Maine said. Not Just tired: Exhausted. You neglected her. Ignored her. You adored me in front of her face. You humiliated her, over and over, until there was nothing left.”
“So now I’m the villain?” Bradley snapped. “You’re accusing me?”
“Yes!” Maine shouted. “Because now that she’s gone, you want me to take her place. You want me to become the woman you let wither away! And don’t think I haven’t noticed–you moaning her name in your sleep. You keeping her perfume bottle in the drawer. You staring at her photos online.”
Bradley went quiet.
“I see it,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I see it all.”
“What are you trying to say?” Bradley muttered. “Didn’t I choose you? Didn’t I ask you to marry me?”
“You asked me,” she said, “because she didn’t. Because she left you. And you think if you shape me into her image, you’ll get that comfort back.”
Maine stared at him hard, her voice trembling not from fear–but from fury. “But I will not become her.”
“So what now?” Bradley asked. “You’re calling off the wedding?”
She gave a bitter smile. “Yes. If marrying you means losing myself, then yes. It’s off.”
He looked away.
“I may have laughed at her before,” Maine said. “I may have thought she was weak. But she’s not. She’s stronger than both of us. Because she left.”
And then–Maine walked out.
No yelling. No tears.
Just the sharp echo of heels on tile… fading.
Bradley stood in the silence.
The house felt larger somehow. Colder.
The windows, the furniture, the floor–all too pristine, too lifeless.
He poured himself a drink. Sat in the living room. The sunlight caught the edge of a dusty photo frame. An old one.
It was of Joyce.
In the garden.
Smiling faintly, holding a pot of newly planted flowers.
He picked it up slowly.
Maine’s words echoed in his head.
“She left because she was tired. You bled her dry.”
He clenched his jaw, trying to push it down. But the longer he stared at that picture, the more he realized she was right.
Chapter 18
19:55 24 May
24 May
the windows, the Tumure, the noor–an too pristine, too mreness.
He poured himself a drink. Sat in the living room. The sunlight caught the edge of a dusty photo frame. An old one.
It was of Joyce.
In the garden.
Smiling faintly, holding a pot of newly planted flowers.
He picked it up slowly.
Maine’s words echoed in his head.
“She left because she was tired. You bled her dry.”
He clenched his jaw, trying to push it down. But the longer he stared at that picture, the more he realized she was right.
It wasn’t about Maine. It wasn’t about the nannies or the wedding.
It was Joyce. The woman he’d taken for granted every day for twenty–five years.
The woman who quietly kept his world together. The woman he’d ignored. Berated. Forgotten.
Until she was gone.
And now? Now the house was broken.
And so was he.
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