Steal What Belonged To Me

The narrow, dimly lit corridor of the villa felt suffocating. I stood just outside the guest room, facing a frantic Simon Cross. Water dripped from his messy hair onto the floorboards. He caught his breath and quickly adjusted his rain-soaked shirt, trying to compose himself.

When he looked up, surprise flashed across his face at the sight of me, but it vanished into a mask of professional distance. "Miss Vance," he offered a polite nod, his tone crisp and formal. "I’m here for Sienna."

That formal address struck a painful chord deep within my chest. They say you can measure a man's love for his wife by how his inner circle treats her. There was no need for me to wonder if my husband truly loved or respected me. The fact that Damian’s closest friend addressed me by my maiden name, ignoring my marital status without a second thought, said it all. To them, I was just Miss Vance, a persistent outsider occupying a borrowed title in Damian's life. The marriage certificate hidden in my drawer meant nothing compared to the bond they shared.

Masking my deep melancholy behind a practiced smile, I nodded. "They are right through here," I replied, leading him directly to the guest room.

As I watched Simon rush in, I felt a quiet, profound envy twist in my gut. It was frightening how effortlessly Sienna commanded warmth, panic, and devotion from the men around her with just a few orchestrated tears and a fever. The warmth she received so easily was something I had bled for over two years, yet never obtained.

I retreated to the master bedroom, seeking refuge from the suffocating atmosphere. Opening the large mahogany closet, I searched for a set of clothes Damian had never worn. My fingers brushed against rows of his pristine, tailored shirts before I pulled out a casual outfit I had bought for him months ago. The price tags were still attached. He had never even bothered to look at the gift, let alone try it on. Holding the crisp fabric in my hands, a bitter smile tugged at my lips. I gathered the clothes and headed back out.

After Simon finished thoroughly checking Sienna's temperature and prescribing the necessary medication, I caught him as he descended the stairs.

"It's late," he said, pausing midway. "Why don't you get some rest?"

"I will in a bit," I said softly, stepping forward to offer him the fresh, dry set of men's clothing. "Your clothes are wet, and it’s still raining outside."

Simon blinked, clearly taken aback. He offered a polite, strained smile and shook his head. "There’s no need. I’m strong enough, I can handle the cold just fine."

I refused to pull my hands back. Instead, I placed the garments directly into his hands, insisting. "Damian has not worn it before, and the tag’s still there. Both of you are almost the same size, so just put it on!"

He stood holding the clothes, unsure of how to react, but I had already turned around, making my way up the stairs. I knew I wasn't doing this out of simple kindness. Simon was the renowned surgeon who had saved my grandmother's life when she was admitted to the hospital. He was a well-known figure in the medical field, and he would never have agreed to operate on an ordinary woman like my grandmother if the Ashford family had not intervened. Handing him those dry clothes was merely my way of settling a lingering debt of gratitude. I hated owing Damian's friends anything, and this small gesture lightened the heavy burden on my conscience.

The heavy storm from the previous night cleared by morning. I woke up early, greeted by a crisp dawn and sunlight tinged with the fresh scent of rain-washed earth. After freshening up, I made my way down the stairs.

I walked into the kitchen, only to be met with a domestic scene that shattered my heart all over again.

Damian stood by the stove, flipping something in a pan. Stripped of his usual cold, tyrannical aura, he wore a simple black apron. The sharp angles of his profile softened in the morning light. He looked patient, focused, and relaxed—a version of my husband I never got to see.

"Brother Damian, I want my egg to be more burnt," Sienna chirped playfully from the island counter. Her fever had broken, leaving a delicate flush on her cheeks. She leaned intimately against his arm, picking a fresh strawberry from a bowl and feeding it directly to his lips from her fingertips. "Not too burnt, though. Otherwise, it’ll taste bitter."

Damian accepted the fruit, chewing silently. He did not pull away from her touch. Instead, he turned his head and looked down at her. His dark eyes brimmed with an unconditional, soft love that made my throat tighten with unshed tears. It was a gentle, protective gaze I had spent countless nights praying for, yet it belonged solely to her. Bathed in the warm morning light filtering through the windowpanes, they looked like a glamorous, picture-perfect couple sharing a quiet breakfast. There was no room in that idyllic frame for a discarded wife.

"They’re really a good pair, aren’t they?"

The sudden voice startled me. I turned around to find Simon standing behind me. He was wearing the dry clothes I provided for him the night before. Because of the torrential downpour and Sienna's condition, Damian clearly hadn't let him leave the villa.

"Good morning," I managed to say, my voice steady.

Simon noticed my eyes drop to his attire. He adjusted the collar and offered a polite nod. "It fits well. Thank you again for the clothes."

I shook my head, quietly dismissing the gratitude. "Don't mention it." The words tasted like ash. I was painfully aware that I had originally purchased those clothes for a husband who never bothered to look at them, let alone wear them.

Hearing our voices, Sienna suddenly turned away from the stove. She spotted us standing in the hallway and lit up, her posture shifting into one of natural authority. She spoke with the bright, commanding tone of a victorious queen reigning over her newly conquered castle.

"Sis Adeline, Brother Simon, both of you’re awake!" she called out, gesturing toward the dining table. "Brother Damian had fried some eggs. Come and have some!"

She acted as the lady of the house, offering invitations in a home that wasn't hers.

I met her gaze, refusing to break under the weight of her confidence. I offered her a flawlessly polite smile, locking my crumbling emotions behind a wall of dignity.

"It’s fine," I replied, my voice clear and unwavering. "I bought some bread and milk yesterday. It’s in the fridge. You’ve just recovered from a fever, so you should drink more milk."

I stood my ground, my feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor. I had lived in this villa for two years, swallowing endless coldness, and my name remained legally printed on the title deed alongside Damian's. Even if I was inherently soft-hearted, I was fiercely unwilling to let somebody blatantly steal what rightfully belonged to me without putting up a quiet fight.