Chapter 3

Days passed in a weird kind of calm.

By day, I was the so-called “Mrs.” of this cold, old mansion. The maids treated me with respect but kept their distance, serving fancy meals that had no warmth. I could wander the huge gardens or flip through old books in the library I couldn’t make sense of—but those were the only places I was allowed. I was basically a fancy caged canary—no freedom, just empty space and loneliness.

My only comfort was news about Benjamin. Caleb had kept his word: he moved Benjamin to the best hospital in the world, with a team of top specialists looking after him.

The lawyer dropped off reports and photos of Benjamin getting better regularly. Looking at my brother’s rosier cheeks and returning smile in those pictures, I’d remind myself it was all worth it.

Nighttime was when I fulfilled my “obligations.”

Caleb’s blood rage didn’t follow a schedule—sometimes it hit in the middle of the night, sometimes at dawn. Whenever that familiar, out-of-control energy filled the mansion, my heart would clench. Soon after, a maid would knock on my door and say flatly: “Ma’am, the master’s waiting for you in his study.”

Like a programmed tool, I’d head to his study.

Sometimes he was rough, like the first time—directly drawing on that calming essence in me. Other times, he was calmer, just wanting me to sit next to him. My presence alone seemed to ground him, keeping his emotions from spiraling.

After one relatively “gentle” session, he didn’t dismiss me right away. He leaned back in his big armchair, eyes closed, brow furrowed—like he was fighting constant pain. The firelight danced over his sharp features, casting deep shadows.

In that moment, he wasn’t the cold, controlling “contract wolf king”—he was just an exhausted guy tortured by an illness.

Watching his jaw stay tight even when he was resting, a stupid flicker of sympathy crossed my mind. So much money and power, but he had to deal with this inhuman torment.

But reality quickly crushed that sympathy.

“Seen enough?”

He spoke without opening his eyes, his voice a little raspy from post-pain tiredness—but still ice-cold.

I jumped, quickly looking down. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Remember your place,” he cut me off, opening his eyes. Those deep orbs had gone back to their usual distant, sharp selves. “You’re just medicine for my pain. Don’t get curious. Don’t have stupid thoughts.”

His words were like ice water, putting out the tiny warm spot that’d just sparked in my heart.

I stood up and curtsied. “Yes, sir.”

As I left the study, I could feel his gaze on my back—cold as needles.

This was my double life: a bored caged bird by day, a on-call remedy by night. Benjamin’s recovery was my only reason to keep going. But every time I saw Caleb’s quiet suffering, it was like dropping a pebble in still water—small, dangerous ripples in my chest.

I had to keep telling myself: Olivia, you’re just a tool. Don’t sympathize. Don’t get curious. And above all… don’t catch feelings.