Henry
Marriage, to Henry Ashbourne, was a matter of stability. Not sentiment.
His own parents had once been in love, and he had watched how that ended—with betrayal, screaming behind locked doors, a mistress, and a quiet scandal buried under money. Love was unpredictable. Dangerous. Soft-minded.
He had vowed, even as a boy, never to allow such a variable into his life.
Adele Wesley, now Adele Ashbourne, was the correct solution. The Wesleys had excellent lineage—old blood, discreet, and obedient. No taint of controversy, no political opinions. And Adele herself? Elegant, articulate, possessed of that quiet intelligence that made her easy to place in any drawing room.
She was the kind of woman who would raise a son to speak properly and never embarrass his name.
She had been raised to be married.
And so, he married her.
The wedding had gone well enough. Her dress had been tasteful. Her conduct faultless. Her beauty, undeniable—though he did not dwell on such things. He had noticed her hands trembled when they recited the vows. Nerves, he assumed. All brides were nervous.
He had given her space. That was the appropriate thing to do. She was young, untested. She would come to appreciate the safety he offered. The wealth. The freedom from vulgarity and uncertainty. In time, she would understand the gift.
He had no complaints.
Except for the quiet.
The mansion, once brisk and businesslike, had become… still. Adele floated through it like a ghost in silk. Always polite, always perfectly composed. Never asking for anything. Never intruding. Never expressing even the mildest desire.
He knew, in some distant part of himself, that he should be flattered.
But something about her silence unnerved him.
His Family's Thoughts
His mother had called her "a proper dove." That was high praise, coming from the Dowager.
Leopold had approved in a different way—he'd said little, but his eyes lingered on Adele longer than Henry liked. Always watching her. An analyst. A collector.
Jason had been the only one who said nothing. Some days before the wedding, Jason had disappeared into his studio and returned hours later with paint on his hands and something broken in his expression.
Henry had seen the way Jason looked at her, Henry knows…
His Thoughts on Adele
Adele never complained. She smiled gently when spoken to. She deferred to him in all things. But there was no warmth. No spark. She responded to his touch like a harp without strings—beautiful, but soundless.
And yet… sometimes, when he walked past her in the corridor and caught her unguarded, her eyes would linger on the window a moment too long. As if watching for someone who would never come.
Once, he heard her humming to herself in the garden. A tune he didn't know.
It stopped the moment she saw him.
He wondered, briefly, if she ever thought of him. If she imagined a future where he became someone more than he was. Warmer. Looser. Capable of feeling whatever it was she was trying not to want.
But Henry Ashbourne didn't deal in fantasies.
He dealt in outcomes.
And she was a successful one.