Isolation is a slow poison. It does not kill quickly, but it spreads quietly, draining the color from the soul until everything feels dull and gray.
Charlotte's isolation was made worse by the fact that, from the outside, she was not alone at all.
She was surrounded by people be staff, social acquaintances, even her own family, yet she felt deeply and painfully lonely.
After the night of the unlit candles, her despair deepened. The hope she had been holding onto was no longer a flame, only cold ash. She felt lost, floating without direction in the silent emptiness of her marriage.
Desperate for someone to hold onto, she reached out to the one person she believed would understand her: her mother.
Her mother was a woman who had married for status and kept it with careful grace. She welcomed Charlotte into a bright sitting room filled with sunlight, the scent of potpourri, and signs of old wealth.
In that cheerful, decorative space, Charlotte felt like a shadow. It was hard for her to put into words the emptiness inside her.
She spoke slowly, brokenly, describing the silence at home, the way she was ignored, and the constant feeling of being unseen by her own husband.
"He doesn't see me, Mother," she finally said. The words hurt as they left her mouth. "It's like I'm furniture. Something beautiful and expensive, but never used."
Her mother listened with a calm, controlled smile. She patted Charlotte's hand lightly, her touch gentle but empty.
"Oh, my dear," she said smoothly. "Lucas is a very important man. He has a company to run. Men like that think differently. Their minds are filled with things we could never fully understand."
She adjusted a silk cushion behind her, a small movement that dismissed everything Charlotte had just said.
"You have a lovely home, a respected name, and a life most women dream of. You need to learn patience."
The words felt like a blow. This was not comfort rather it pushed her further down.
"Patient for what?" Charlotte asked, her voice shaking with sadness and anger. "For him to one day realize I exist? That I have a soul?"
Her mother sighed, clearly annoyed.
"Charlotte, this is simply how powerful men are. Your father was the same. You need to find ways to fill your time. Charity work, perhaps. Host events. Redecorate the summer house. If you stay busy, you won't dwell on these… sad thoughts."
It was advice meant to distract her, not heal her. A way to cover the wound instead of admitting it was there.
Charlotte left her mother's house feeling even more alone. The person who should have defended her had treated her pain as a minor problem, something caused by boredom and solved by social plans.
Everyone seemed to agree on one thing: Lucas's coldness was not a flaw, but a requirement for his success. Her emotional needs were seen as unnecessary, even childish.
She felt like she was shouting into a deep, dark well, and the only sound that returned was her own voice telling her she was wrong.
She tried again, this time with her closest friend, Chloe, whom she had known since childhood. They met for lunch at a busy, stylish restaurant, full of noise and movement it is the opposite of Charlotte's quiet home.
Chloe, lively and practical, listened with more care than her mother had, but her conclusion was still painful.
"Look, Ellie, I understand," she said. "Lucas is distant. He's basically a walking business deal. But he isn't cruel. He doesn't hurt you. He doesn't cheat. He takes care of you. Compared to many women, you're doing fine."
She leaned closer, trying to be honest.
"Maybe you're hoping for a fairy tale. Life doesn't work that way. Marriage especially in our world is about partnership.
He manages the business, you manage the home and social side. That's the arrangement. You just need to lower your expectations."
Lower her expectations. Be patient. Stay busy.
The message was always the same. Everyone was telling her to make herself smaller, to silence her needs, to fit into a life that felt tight and airless.
She drove home through the city, tall buildings casting long shadows that darkened the streets. Her mother's words and Chloe's advice repeated in her mind, not as comfort, but as proof of her greatest fear: she was alone in her pain.
No one seemed to understand that neglect can destroy a soul just as surely as violence can destroy a body. They saw her life as a golden cage and called it luxury, blind to the bars closing in around her, stealing her breath.
Her loneliness was deeper than she had ever known. When she looked into it, she saw no reflection, heard no answer, only herself. There was no one coming to save her. She was on her own.