Chapter 111: Hello, Sister.

Chapter 111: Hello, Sister. Caius was standing there. Just inside the closet. His eyes were on hers—steady and unreadable—but he didn’t dare look anywhere else. His gaze remained only at her face. Heather’s stomach dropped so fast it felt like the floor tilted beneath her. Her heart slammed against her ribs, climbing up her throat, making it hard to breathe. Her skin prickled with heat—not from the leftover warmth of the bath, but from raw, creeping embarrassment. She was completely bare. And not just standing up, not even just walking across the room. She had been bending down when he knocked something over, unaware, completely exposed and completely vulnerable. For a second, neither of them moved. The only sound was the faint drip of water sliding from her damp hair onto the closet floor. Her breath hitched in her chest. Her lips parted slightly, words formed but never made it out. She was too stunned to speak. Caius stood frozen, his face was unreadable, except for the small flicker of apology in his eyes. That was it. No shock, no smirk, no teasing—just quiet and silent regret. But he didn’t look away. Heather’s fingers fumbled against the pile of clothes she had been holding, clutching them tight to her chest, covering what she could in a shaky, awkward rush. Her skin burned—not just from the heat of the bath, but from the deep, creeping flush crawling up her neck and cheeks. Her eyes darted to the floor, spotting the towel lying crumpled near her feet. She grabbed it, yanking it up, wrapping it around herself with trembling hands, her fingers slipping against the damp fabric as she tried to tie it back in place. "Get out!" she snapped, her voice sharp, but shaking faintly at the edges. Caius blinked once, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, clearing it awkwardly. His eyes finally broke away from hers. He turned left, hesitated, then pivoted and walked out the other way without saying a word. The closet door clicked softly shut behind him. Heather didn’t breathe until she heard it. Her chest rose and fell, tight and uneven, her pulse pounded in her ears. She rushed to the door, flipping the lock with a loud, desperate click, like it could somehow undo what just happened. She leaned her back against the wood, burying her face in her hands. Her skin was still flushed, her palms damp with nerves, not water. "Shit," she whispered under her breath. He saw everything. Not in passing. Not casually. No—she had been bending, reaching for her clothes, completely exposed in the worst, most humiliating way possible. Her hands tangled in her wet hair, fingers tugging gently at the roots like the faint sting could distract her from the heat crawling down her neck, the mortification sitting heavy in her chest. She groaned, sinking down onto the small bench by the drawers, her towel still clutched tightly around her. Her heart wouldn’t slow down. This was why they had rules. Boundaries. Unspoken but understood. Take turns, give space, respect privacy. But she hadn’t planned to shower. It had been an accident, really. She’d gone in to splash cold water on her face, to get away from him, from his tray of lasagna, from the suffocating weight of the bedroom—and somehow, she ended up in the bath. She exhaled slowly, trying to calm herself when her eyes fell on the neatly folded clothes still lying on the floor. Her clothes. Caius must have brought them out. Probably thought he was being considerate. She pressed her hand to her forehead, rubbing the heel of her palm against her temple, willing herself to move past this moment. She dressed quickly, tugging on soft cotton and clean fabric, every motion making her feel a little less exposed and a little more human. When she was done, she hovered by the closet door, hand resting lightly on the knob. But she paused when she heard the door clicking shut out in the bedroom. Her heartbeat steadied, just a little. Good. Maybe he was gone. Heather cracked the door open a few inches, peeking out. The room was empty, but the tray of food still sat untouched on the table, and sunlight spilled across the floor. She slipped out quietly, her bare feet making soft sounds against the polished floor, moving like she was tiptoeing through an enemy’s territory. Downstairs, the halls were quiet. She scanned every doorway, every corner like a soldier on patrol, determined not to run into him again. The staff by the dining room doors straightened as she approached. Two of them stepped aside, pulling the heavy double doors open. Heather walked in, expecting silence, maybe a little peace. Instead, she heard voices across the room, along with the faint clatter of cutlery against porcelain. Adonis sat at the long dining table, lounging in his chair like the whole house belonged to him. His legs were stretched out, one arm draped lazily across the back of the seat. Across from him sat a woman. Red hair messy and damp, her pale skin covered in fresh marks along her neck. She was wearing a shirt too big for her—a man’s shirt. His shirt. The moment the woman noticed Heather, she froze, her posture tightened slightly. Heather kept her expression blank, walking to the far end of the table. She couldn’t care less, her skin was still flushed from earlier. She pulled out a chair, and sat down. Then reached for a glass of water. The woman’s eyes lingered on her for too long, curious. "Are you..." The redhead’s voice was soft but edged with something nosy, something that hinted at trouble. "Adonis’s wife?" "God, no." she said almost immediately. The woman’s expression lightened, relief bloomed across her face. "Then... who are you?" Heather sipped her water, the glass cool against her lips. She didn’t know why a stranger was asking her that. She set the glass down gently, her fingers rested on the rim for a moment before answering. "His brother’s wife," she said finally, the word *wife* dragging a little slower than the rest. It didn’t sound right in her mouth. The woman smiled, looking visibly more comfortable. "Oh! Good. You’re gorgeous, I thought maybe..." Heather didn’t reply. She reached for a serving spoon, adding a small portion of eggs to her plate as her stomach growled softly—betraying her calm exterior. The woman noticed. "They made too much," she offered, sliding a platter toward Heather. "Help yourself. I’m Nadine, by the way." "Heather." She didn’t offer more than that, focusing on the food. Adonis hadn’t looked at her once. He scrolled through his phone, lounging like nothing in the world could bother him. But the second Nadine placed more food on Heather’s plate, his eyes lifted—slowly. "That’s enough," he said quietly, his voice flat but carrying weight. Nadine paused, confused. "What?" "You’re done here." "But I’m still eating—" "I said you’re done." His words were final. Nadine hesitated, her lips parted like she might argue—but thought better of it. She stood, straightening the oversized shirt, pouting under her breath as she slipped from the room. Adonis watched her leave, then his gaze settled on Heather. His eyes were steady and dark, like he was trying to peel her apart layer by layer, without saying a word. Then he stood, flicked his napkin onto the table, which Heather found dramatic, and left without another glance. Heather watched him go, her fingers hovering over a strip of bacon, the hunger twisting with guilt now. She sighed, dropped the bacon like it burned her, shoved the plate aside, and leaned back in her chair. "Ugh," she muttered softly to herself, dragging a hand down her face. The morning was a mess. Embarrassment, awkward run-ins, guilt—it was all stacking up fast. And it wasn’t even noon. "Call for the madam." Heather turned her gaze to the maid bending slightly before her, with a telephone in her hand. She wasn’t expecting any call; and all calls go directly to her cellphone... Which she hadn’t even seen all morning. She took the phone from the young maids hand with caution. Was she even sure if was for her? "Hello?" "Hello, sister." Why was Lauren calling her through the Thorne’s home line?