Chapter 5: Stranger in My Own Home

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in Marcus’s room. Married for four years, I had never been here before.

The air smelled faintly of cedar and men’s cologne—a little too strong, the kind you buy at a department store when you want to look like you’ve got your life together. The room was neat, impersonal, like a guest room in a model home, except for the framed photo of a high school football team on the dresser. His world, not mine.

At the door, I heard a woman crying.

"If I’d known it would turn out like this, I never would have let Mrs. Carter go get medicine for me. That day, she insisted on eating the jam I made, so I was in the kitchen all day."

Her voice was all Lifetime movie—soft, quivering, just begging for a commercial break. Even without seeing her, I could picture Lillian: pale, delicate, with eyes that could wring sympathy out of a stone.

"If only I could have gone for the medicine myself, then she wouldn’t have..."

"Don’t say that, it’s not your fault."

Marcus’s voice was cold, but his tone was unusually gentle.

"It’s my fault. I’m the daughter of a felon, a nobody. If I die, so be it..."

She sniffled, pressing her fists to her mouth. I wondered if she practiced that gesture in private, too.

"Don’t talk about yourself like that."

He sounded tired, like a man running for mayor who just got caught in the middle of a scandal he didn’t cause but can’t escape either.

I’d heard enough and suddenly pushed open the door.

"M-Mrs. Carter... you’re..."

Lillian, tears streaming down her face, was leaning in my husband’s arms, staring at me in shock. Marcus also seemed surprised, at a loss for a moment.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Lillian looked like she’d seen a ghost, and Marcus’s jaw clenched. The light from the hallway cut across the floor, catching the shimmer of Lillian’s tears and the dull sheen of Marcus’s wedding ring. I took it all in, every detail sharp as glass.

So, while I was dead inside, this was the scene outside.

The system clearly said the wound wouldn’t hurt, so why did my heart still twist with pain?

Maybe pain is just part of living—no matter what the system promises. I stood in the doorway, my fists tight at my sides, and realized you can be numb and still ache in places no one else can see.

I walked around them and called, "Sophie."

The little maid ran in, stumbling as if she’d seen a ghost. But she was obviously happier to see me than those two.

She gave me a quick, nervous smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. In her eyes, I saw something close to relief—a flicker of hope, like she’d been waiting for someone to turn the lights back on in a dark house.

"Could you bring me some tea?"

Marcus, for some reason, suddenly grabbed me.

"You didn’t die? Your wound..."

His hands were cold and too tight, fingers digging into my arm as if to make sure I was real. His face was so close I could see the worry lines etched deep above his brow.

I shook off his hand.

"Yeah, not as you hoped. I just didn’t die."

My voice was flat as day-old soda, but I watched his face anyway—hoping for something like regret, or even anger. Instead, there was only confusion. The mark of the makeup Lillian had accidentally smeared on his shirt caught my eye—a soft pink stain just below his collar. It made my stomach turn.

There was still the mark of the makeup Lillian had accidentally smeared on his shirt. I found it disgusting and stepped back. Who would have thought that the man who usually didn’t even want to touch me would suddenly grip my wrist tightly.

"I was worried about you. Why must you speak so harshly?"

He sounded almost sincere, but I’d learned better than to trust that. His thumb brushed over my skin, and I fought the urge to pull away harder.

I struggled, not wanting him to touch me at all.

"Mrs. Carter misunderstood, there’s nothing between the general and me. I was just worried about you, so... please don’t fight with him because of me."

Lillian’s voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with practiced innocence. She looked at me with wide, damp eyes—eyes that had seen too much and learned all the wrong lessons.

"Lillian, you’re overthinking it. I really am just thirsty," I interrupted her.

I tried to keep my tone light, but even Sophie looked at me with concern, as if afraid I’d shatter right there.

She was about to say more, but Marcus waved his hand. He picked me up by the waist and carried me straight to the bedroom. As soon as he set me on the bed, he began to unbutton my shirt without a word.

My mind flashed to sitcom reruns and hospital dramas—a blur of awkward tenderness and clinical detachment. I felt like a specimen on a table, not a wife. His hands were efficient, not loving.

"What are you doing?"

"Don’t move. Let me see your wound."

His tone left no room for argument, but I bristled anyway. My body was mine, even if the world kept trying to prove otherwise.

In the midst of our struggle, I heard a thud outside.

"Lillian, Lillian, what’s wrong?"

Marcus’s body instantly tensed, and he looked back, worried.

I watched his eyes flicker toward the door—his concern for her as natural as breathing. The old ache sharpened, but I forced myself to smile, just barely.

"I’m fine, Marcus. Go check on Lillian. She’s weak."

In the past, I was always the most jealous of Lillian, but now, being so understanding, even Marcus was surprised. He awkwardly patted my head.

The gesture was clumsy—an attempt at affection from someone who didn’t know how. If it were anyone else, I might have laughed. Instead, I let him have his moment.

"Don’t be mad anymore. I’ll get the doctor to come see you."

I smiled and nodded. But the moment he closed the door, I grabbed the curtain and wiped the spot on my hair where he had just touched me.

There was a satisfaction in erasing his touch—like scrubbing out a wine stain from a favorite shirt. I promised myself that, for the next ten days, I’d make my own rules, no matter what the system or Marcus or Lillian wanted from me.