Jay wasn't looking for him.
She never did.
That night, the mansion felt louder than usual—music drifting faintly from the east wing, unfamiliar laughter curling through the halls. Jay hesitated outside her room, her fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl. Guests were rare, and when they came, she usually disappeared. That was easier.
But she needed water. Just that. One small reason to step out.
Her footsteps were soft against the marble floor as she moved toward the staircase. The laughter grew clearer now—female, careless, alive. Jay slowed without meaning to, her chest tightening in a way she didn't understand yet.
Then she saw him.
Jax stood near the tall windows of the lounge, his back half-turned. His hand rested casually at a woman's waist, fingers confident, familiar. The woman leaned into him easily, laughing at something he said—because yes, he was talking. His voice was low, warm, nothing like the silence he reserved for Jay.
And then the woman tilted her head up.
Jax bent down without hesitation.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't hidden. It was natural—like something he had done a hundred times before. Their faces were close, too close, and then his lips met hers in a way Jay had never known.
The world didn't crash.
It went quiet.
Jay stood frozen at the edge of the corridor, unseen, unnoticed—just like always. Her first instinct wasn't anger. Or jealousy. It was confusion. A small, foolish thought whispered inside her mind.
So this is how he looks when he wants someone.
His hand tightened at the woman's waist. He smiled against her lips—actually smiled. Jay had never seen that smile up close. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't forced.
It was real.
Her throat burned, but no tears fell. She didn't move. Didn't interrupt. Didn't turn away immediately. Some part of her needed to understand the truth fully before she could walk away from it.
This was never about her being his wife.
It was about her never being his choice.
Someone brushed past Jay in the hallway, snapping her out of the moment. She stepped back instinctively, retreating into the shadows before anyone could notice her standing there. Jax didn't look up. He didn't sense her presence. He never did.
Jay returned to her room slowly, like every step required permission.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her hands trembling for the first time since the marriage. Still, she didn't cry. Crying felt like asking for comfort—and she had learned better than that.
She walked to the mirror and looked at herself.
Same soft eyes. Same quiet face. Nothing had changed.
Except now, she knew.
That night, when Jax finally entered their bedroom, Jay was already lying on her side, facing the wall. She felt the bed dip under his weight. Felt the familiar distance settle between them.
He smelled the same as always—colgne, night air, someone else.
Jay closed her eyes.
For the first time, she didn't wait for him to notice her.
For the first time, she didn't hope.
Something inside her folded neatly, carefully—like a letter never meant to be sent.
And in that silence, Jay understood something that hurt more than anything else:
She could survive being unloved.
But she would never again pretend she didn't see the truth.