(Yvette's POV)
I woke up crying.
The sob tore out of my chest before I could stop it, sharp and broken, as if I had been dragged out of deep water. My hands clenched the sheets instinctively, fingers trembling as I tried to remind myself where I was.
My room.
My bed.
My new life.
But my heart refused to listen.
The dream was still clinging to me, vivid and cruel in its gentleness.
"Mama…"
The sound echoed in my ears, soft and sweet, and my throat tightened so painfully that I could barely breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image refused to fade.
A little boy with Joseph's eyes.
My son.
The child I had carried for nine months. The child I had cradled in my arms during sleepless nights. The child who had smiled at me as if I were his entire world.
The child who did not exist anymore.
A choked sound escaped my lips as I turned onto my side, curling inward like I could protect my heart from shattering all over again. I pressed my hand over my mouth, muffling the sobs even though there was no one here to hear me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered hoarsely into the pillow.
"I'm so sorry…"
I had chosen this path.
I had chosen to walk away—from Joseph, from that marriage, from a future soaked in resentment and loneliness. I had sworn I would never drown in a loveless relationship again.
But in doing so, I had also chosen a world where my son would never be born.
I had known this from the beginning.
I told myself I had accepted it.
But acceptance did not mean the pain disappeared.
My chest ached as if something had been carved out of me and left hollow. No one else remembered him. No one else mourned him. To the world, nothing had been lost.
Sometimes, I wondered if that was the cruelest punishment of all—to grieve someone who never existed in this life.
By the time my tears finally slowed, my body felt heavy and drained. I lay still, staring blankly at the unfamiliar ceiling as pale morning light slipped through the curtains.
This was my new manor.
Smaller than the Hamilton estate. Quieter. Too quiet.
I forced myself to sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My head throbbed, my eyes burned, but I washed my face anyway, letting the cool water ground me in the present. After changing into a simple dress, I stepped out into the hallway.
My footsteps echoed softly.
The manor was beautiful—elegant without being excessive—but it felt empty in a way I wasn't used to. I walked slowly, letting myself take it in.
The sitting room flooded with sunlight.
The dining room, large enough for gatherings I had no intention of hosting.
The kitchen, spotless and unused.
When I reached the guest wing, my steps slowed. My hand lifted toward one of the doors without conscious thought.
For a moment, my mind betrayed me.
I imagined a smaller bed inside. Toys neatly arranged in one corner. A child's laughter bouncing off the walls.
My breath hitched.
I withdrew my hand quickly, my fingers curling into a fist at my side.
"No," I whispered. "Not this life."
I chose a room at the far end of the hall and closed the door firmly. I didn't lock it—but I didn't open it either.
Some spaces were allowed to remain empty.
I retreated to the kitchen and rolled up my sleeves. Cooking had always been my escape—even in my past life, when the manor was full yet unbearably lonely.
Chop.
Stir.
Taste.
My hands moved automatically, guided by years of muscle memory.
"Not like that, Yvette," my mother's voice echoed gently in my mind. "Hold the knife like this."
My grip adjusted unconsciously, and my vision blurred.
I remembered my father leaning against the counter, arms crossed, pretending to be unimpressed.
"Edible," he would say with a nod. "That's improvement."
A small, sad smile tugged at my lips.
I ate breakfast alone at the dining table, the silence pressing in—but it wasn't suffocating. There were no tense glances. No cold words. No unspoken resentment.
For the first time in a long while, I had space.
It felt strange.
Lonely, yes—but also peaceful.
Later that morning, a knock sounded at the door.
When I opened it, Brent Dawson stood there, documents tucked under his arm. He paused when he saw me, his expression softening.
"Good morning," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"You're not," I replied.
We sat in the sitting room, going over schedules and legal matters. Brent was efficient, professional—but never cold. He explained things clearly, pausing when I needed time.
At one point, he looked up from the papers and studied me quietly.
"You didn't sleep well," he said.
I froze for a moment before nodding. "I didn't."
Brent didn't pry. He simply nodded in understanding.
"Then let's keep today light," he said. "You don't have to prove anything all at once."
I looked at him, surprised.
"You don't need to be strong today," he added calmly. "You've already done enough by choosing to stand on your own."
Something in my chest loosened.
"Thank you," I said softly.
After he left, the manor returned to silence.
I spent the afternoon making small decisions—postponing meetings, delaying announcements. I chose to keep my maiden name professionally.
It felt like reclaiming a part of myself I had once buried.
No one objected.
No one questioned me.
As evening settled in, I stood by the window, watching the sky darken. My reflection stared back at me—tired, grieving, but resolute.
"I'm still learning," I whispered. "But I'll get there."
Breathing still hurt.
But for the first time, it was my own.
(Joseph POV)
I woke up with my chest tight, as if something heavy had been pressing against it all night.
The room was dark, the familiar ceiling of my bedroom coming slowly into focus. For a moment, I simply lay there, listening to my own breathing—steady, controlled, normal.
It had only been a dream.
That was what I told myself.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table. 3:17 a.m.
Too early. Too quiet.
I rubbed a hand over my face and sat up, the sheets tangled around my legs. My body felt… wrong. Heavy in places it shouldn't be. My heart was beating faster than it had any right to.
The dream lingered, refusing to dissolve.
I had been standing in a room I didn't recognize.
Large. Cold. Too immaculate to feel like a home.
And Yvette was there.
She stood near the window, her back straight, hands folded in front of her like she was bracing herself. She was thinner than I remembered. Paler. Her eyes—those eyes that always looked at me with quiet warmth—were dull.
Not angry.
Not crying.
Just… empty.
"Joseph," she had said.
Not Seph.
Not the way she called me now.
Her voice in the dream was calm, almost detached, and that alone had unsettled me more than shouting ever could.
"What is it now?" I had replied.
The sound of my own voice in the dream still made my stomach twist.
Cold. Sharp. Impatient.
That wasn't me.
I clenched my jaw and swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet touching the floor. The sensation grounded me, but not enough to chase away the image of her flinching slightly at my tone.
"There's something you should see," dream-Yvette had said.
She had led me into another room.
Smaller.
Warmer.
And then—
I sucked in a sharp breath as the memory surged forward.
A child.
A little boy stood near the bed, clutching a wooden toy in his hands. He couldn't have been more than four or five. His hair was dark. His eyes—
My eyes.
The realization had hit me like a blow to the chest even in the dream.
He had looked up at me hesitantly, as if unsure whether he was allowed to speak.
"Papa?"
The word echoed in my head now, clear and unmistakable.
I pressed my palms against my knees, fingers digging in hard.
I didn't have children.
I never had.
So why—why had the sight of that boy felt so painfully familiar?
In the dream, I hadn't knelt. I hadn't smiled.
I had barely acknowledged him.
"Go to your mother," I had said flatly.
Even now, remembering it made something twist uncomfortably inside me.
The boy's face had fallen, his small shoulders drooping as he turned back to Yvette. She had said nothing. She never did in that dream. She simply reached for him, pulling him close like she was shielding him from me.
From his own father.
"No," I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair. "That's not me."
I stood abruptly and paced the room, agitation coiling tighter with every step.
I would never treat Yvette like that.
I had been overprotective—maybe too much at times—but cruel? Cold? Indifferent?
Impossible.
And yet the dream had felt… real.
Not hazy or disjointed like ordinary dreams. It had weight. Continuity. Emotion that lingered long after waking.
The worst part wasn't even how I treated Yvette.
It was the look on her face when she finally spoke again.
"I'll take him to sleep," she had said quietly.
There was no accusation in her voice.
No bitterness.
Just exhaustion.
The kind that came from loving alone for too long.
My chest tightened painfully.
I turned toward the window and pulled the curtain aside, staring out into the dark cityscape. Lights glimmered in the distance, alive and real—proof that I was awake, that this was now.
That dream was nothing more than my mind playing tricks on me.
Stress. Guilt. The fallout from the will. From Yvette moving out.
That was all.
And yet…
I closed my eyes briefly, and another image surfaced unbidden.
Small hands tugging at my sleeve.
"Mama said you're busy."
A child's voice. Soft. Resigned.
I opened my eyes sharply.
I couldn't even remember my dreams normally. I had never been the type to dwell on them. But this—this was different.
Too detailed.
Too personal.
Too cruel.
My jaw tightened.
"I would never hurt her," I said aloud, my voice low and firm in the empty room. "I would never be that man."
And yet, somewhere deep inside, an unsettling doubt stirred.
What if the man in that dream existed?
What if he was a version of me I didn't want to acknowledge?
The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax.
I was being ridiculous.
Yvette was alive. Safe. Stronger than ever.
There was no child. No marriage. No past life.
Just unresolved feelings and a mind grasping for explanations.
That was all this was.
Still… as I lay back down, sleep refused to come easily.
And for the first time, the silence of the house felt louder than ever.