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- Herausgeber: epubli
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
MADONNA, A STRUGGLING 27-year-old, enters a cold contract marriage with Warren Westwood, her late father's business partner he needs a wife for appearances; she needs financial security. Their agreement: no love, no intimacy, just two years of pretending. Moving into his isolated estate, Madonna discovers a house haunted by grief. Locked rooms hide portraits of Warren's late sister, Liora, whose tragic death shattered his family. Though Warren is distant, small cracks in his armour appear a shared meal, a music box gift, a rare smile. When Madonna confronts Warren's icy mother at a tense dinner, their partnership deepens. Together, they redecorate Liora's room, symbolizing Warren's healing. A mystical attic mirror seems to reflect Liora's spirit, bridging past and present. At a public gala, Warren proudly claims Madonna as his wife, stunning high society. Their first dance sparks unspoken desire. Later, he admits: "I don't want this to end."
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The Marriage That Wasn't Mine
By
Jagdish Krishanlal Arora
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE MARRIAGE THAT WASN'T MINE
First edition. May 4, 2025.
Copyright © 2025 Jagdish Krishanlal Arora.
Written by Jagdish Krishanlal Arora.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Also by Jagdish Krishanlal Arora
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Book of Jokes
Car Insurance and Claims
Digital Electronics, Computer Architecture and Microprocessor Design Principles
Guided Meditation and Yoga
The Bible and Jesus Christ
Unity Quest
From Oasis to Global Stage: The Evolution of Arab Civilization
Secrets of Mount Kailash, Bermuda Triangle and the Lost City of Atlantis
Visitors from Outer Space
Motivation
The Aliens and God Theory
The Lunar Voyager
Queen Elizabeth II and the British Monarchy
The Kremlin Conspiracy
Vegetable Gardening, Salads and Recipes
How to End The War in Ukraine
The Old and New World Order
Stellaris
Travelling to Mars in the Cosmic Odyssey 2050
How the Universe Works
Mental Health and Well Being
Ancient History of Mars
The Nexus
Basic and Advanced Physics
Administrative Law
Calculus
The Ramayana
A Watery Mystery
Romantic Conflicts
Thieves of Palestine
Love in Chicago
WordPress Design and Development
World War III
Travellers Guide to Mount Kailash
Become a Better Writer With Creative Writing
Emerging Trends in Carbon Emission Reduction
India Independence Through Non Violence
Copyright, Patents, Trademarks and Trade Secret Laws
Decoding CHATGPT and Artificial Intelligence
The Untold Story of Diana and Prince Charles
Time Travel
How to Lose Weight Quickly
Subconcious Programming
Productive Healthcare Management
Arandor
The Attic's Secrets
Risks Associated with Artifical Intelligence and Robotics
Children of the Magic Realm
The Code of Hammurabi
Large Language Models - LLMs
Cyber Security
Romantic Noveels Collection
Data Science – Neural Networks, Deep Learning, LLMs and Power BI
Manusmriti
Planet Earth
Space, Time and Matter
Ukraine vs Russia
King's Love
Married to A Disabled Billionaire CEO
THE Ukraine Ceasefire Agreement and History
The New York Archives
World War IV: Russia Vs United States
God was Created by Early Human Civilizations
Contract Marriage to Everlasting Love
The Stranger at our House
The Marriage That Wasn't Mine
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Jagdish Krishanlal Arora
Introduction
Chapter 1: The Proposal
Chapter 2: A House with Locked Rooms
Chapter 3: The Portrait Room
Chapter 4: Cracks in the Wall
Chapter 5: Whispers in the Rain
Chapter 6: A Glimpse Beyond the Veil
Chapter 7: A Tangle of Ribbons
Chapter 8: The Gala
Chapter 9: In the Quiet of Morning
Chapter 10: The Space Between
Chapter 11: The Echo of Unspoken Words
Chapter 12: Unspoken Truths
Chapter 13: Crossroads
Chapter 14: Boundaries and Bridges
Chapter 15: The Space Between Us
Chapter 16: The Unspoken Truth
Chapter 17: Pieces of the Past
Chapter 18: The Turning Point
Chapter 19: Boundaries and Bridges
Chapter 20: Shifting Sands
Chapter 21: Beneath the Surface
Chapter 22: Tides of Change
Chapter 23: Unspoken Truths
Chapter 24: Shifting Foundations
Chapter 25: Beneath the Surface
Chapter 26: A Step Closer
Chapter 27: The Tapestry of Us
Chapter 28: The First Step
Chapter 29: The Cornerstone
Chapter 30: The First Storm
Chapter 31: Unspoken Truths
Chapter 32: The Weight of Words
Chapter 33: A Promise in the Quiet
Chapter 34: In the Quiet of the Storm
Chapter 35: The Distance Between
Chapter 36: A Slow Kind of Trust
Chapter 37: In the Quiet of Morning
Chapter 38: Echoes of the Past
Chapter 39: Unspoken Promises
Chapter 40: Letters Never Sent
Chapter 41: A House with Open Doors
Chapter 42: A Shift in the Wind
Chapter 43: Echoes in the Quiet
Chapter 44: A New Vow
Chapter 45: Uninvited Guest
Chapter 46: The Calm Before the Storm
Chapter 47: Shadows of the Past
Chapter 48: The Choice
Chapter 49: Into the Dark
Chapter 50: Shadows of the Past
Chapter 51: The Burden of Truth
Chapter 52: Unravelling the Past
Chapter 53: Tangled Threads
Chapter 54: Reframing Home
Chapter 55: The Weight of Silence
Chapter 56: The Path Forward
Chapter 57: A New Beginning
Chapter 58: Crossing Boundaries
Chapter 59: The Unspoken Truth
Chapter 60: The Quiet Understanding
Chapter 61: The Unspoken Words
Chapter 62: Tides of Change
Chapter 63: Crossroads
Further Reading: Married to A Disabled Billionaire CEO
About the Author
Introduction
MADONNA, A STRUGGLING 27-year-old, enters a cold contract marriage with Warren Westwood, her late father’s business partner he needs a wife for appearances; she needs financial security. Their agreement: no love, no intimacy, just two years of pretending.
Moving into his isolated estate, Madonna discovers a house haunted by grief. Locked rooms hide portraits of Warren’s late sister, Liora, whose tragic death shattered his family. Though Warren is distant, small cracks in his armour appear a shared meal, a music box gift, a rare smile.
When Madonna confronts Warren’s icy mother at a tense dinner, their partnership deepens. Together, they redecorate Liora’s room, symbolizing Warren’s healing. A mystical attic mirror seems to reflect Liora’s spirit, bridging past and present.
At a public gala, Warren proudly claims Madonna as his wife, stunning high society. Their first dance sparks unspoken desire. Later, he admits: “I don’t want this to end.”
Buying a farmhouse together, they build a new life Madonna paints; Warren learns to love through actions. When a storm hits, Warren finally shares his grief, and they burn their contract. The story ends with them painting their future, free from the past: “I’m glad we did this,” Warren whispers a quiet vow to love for real.
Main Characters
Madonna Westwood
The protagonist, a 27-year-old woman who enters a contract marriage with Warren to escape financial instability. Over time, she grows from reluctant wife to a woman embracing unexpected love.
Warren Westwood
A stoic, aloof businessman who proposes a marriage of convenience to Madonna. Haunted by his sister’s death and family estrangement, he slowly opens up emotionally.
Liora Westwood
Warren’s late older sister, whose tragic death in a horseback riding accident shattered the Westwood family. Her memory lingers in the locker rooms of the estate.
Aunt Rihanna
Madonna’s pragmatic aunt who convinces her to accept Warren’s proposal for financial security.
Helen
The stern but kind housekeeper at the Westwood estate. She becomes a maternal figure to Madonna and subtly bridges the gap between her and Warren.
Julian Thorn
Warren’s childhood friend who hints at Warren’s hidden grief and secrets. He urges Madonna to "bring light" into Warren’s life.
Secondary Characters
Mrs. Westwood
Warren’s cold, judgmental mother, who hosts an awkward dinner to assess Madonna. Her strained relationship with Warren reflects their shared grief over Liora.
Warren’s Father
A distant figure who drowned himself in work after Liora’s death, mentioned briefly in Warren’s backstory.
The Lawyer
Oversees the contract marriage agreement, emphasizing its transactional nature.
Madonna’s Ex
Briefly referenced as someone who undermined her self-worth, particularly her passion for art.
Madonna’s Mother
Deceased: her locket (with a quote about love) becomes a symbolic keepsake for Madonna.
Marissa
The cheerful realtor who helps Madonna and Warren find their farmhouse, symbolizing their fresh start.
Servants & Staff
Silent but present figures in the Westwood estate, emphasizing the family’s formality and isolation.
Symbolic Figures
Storm (the Horse)
Liora’s beloved horse, tied to her fatal accident. A metaphor for Warren’s unresolved trauma.
The Mirror in the Attic
A supernatural or metaphorical presence that seems to reflect Liora’s spirit, deepening the theme of grief and memory.
Themes Linked to Characters
Warren & Madonna: From contractual obligation to genuine partnership.
Liora: Represents the "ghosts" of the past that must be confronted.
Helen & Julian: Catalysts for healing and truth.
Aunt Rihanna & Mrs. Westwood: Contrasting maternal influences (pragmatism vs. emotional detachment).
Chapter 1: The Proposal
RAIN TAPPED AGAINST the windowpane like a soft knock on a closed door, persistent and hesitant. Madonna sat on the edge of the settee in her aunt's narrow living room, fingers gripping the edge of her coat. The smell of rosemary and dust lingered in the air, as though time had folded in on itself in this house, holding the past captive within its walls.
"Madonna, you need to think practically," Aunt Rihanna said from her rocking chair. Her tone wasn't harsh, but resolute. "You’re twenty-seven, you’ve got no stable job, and your father left nothing but debts. This contract marriage it’s not love, but it’s a way out."
Madonna kept her eyes on the frayed rug. Her chest was tight with indecision. The proposal felt absurd, like a scene from a bad soap opera, but it was very real. Her father’s former business partner, a stoic and aloof man named Warren Westwood, had offered her a marriage contract. Not for love, not even for companionship, but for image. He needed a wife. She needed a way to stay afloat.
She'd only met Warren twice. Once at her father’s funeral, where he had stood silently at the back of the room, dressed in a sharp black suit and watching everything with cold eyes. The second time was yesterday, over coffee, when he laid out the terms of the agreement like a business transaction.
"You will not be obligated to fulfil any wifely duties," he'd said, his voice as smooth and unreadable as polished stone. "I will provide housing, an allowance, and security. In return, I expect cooperation. We will stay married for two years. After that, we part ways."
Madonna had stared at her cup, too stunned to speak.
Now, the words echoed in her mind like a haunting refrain. She’d dreamed of love since she was a child. Not a fairy tale, but a kind of mutual tenderness that grew in shared moments. The proposal offered nothing of the kind.
"But it’s not right," she whispered.
Aunt Rihanna sighed. "What’s right is what keeps you safe. Not what keeps your heart fluttering. Life doesn’t always hand us the dreams we want. Sometimes, it hands us a lifeboat, and we need to take it."
Madonna pressed her hand against her chest. Her heartbeat steadily, a quiet protest the storm outside.
The contract was printed on thick cream paper. She sat across from Warren in a private law office, the ceiling high and the silence absolute. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and a silver watch that gleamed when he moved. Everything about him felt calculated, from the perfect knot in his tie to the way he kept his hands folded over the table.
She hadn’t seen him smile. Not even once.
"You’ve read the terms?" he asked.
Madonna nodded.
"And you agree?"
She hesitated. Then, in the smallest voice, she said, "Yes."
He turned to the lawyer, who began reading aloud the details for both. Monthly stipend. Shared public appearances. Separate rooms. No romantic obligation. Mutual discretion.
When it came time to sign, her hand trembled as she picked up the pen. Warren noticed.
"Are you sure?" he asked, with no hint of emotion.
Madonna looked up at him. There was no warmth in his eyes, but something else flickered there perhaps caution. Or responsibility. She couldn’t tell.
"Yes," she said again.
She signed.
Warren signed next, swiftly and without hesitation.
And just like that, she became Madonna Westwood.
The car ride to his estate was silent. Warren’s driver navigated the city traffic with ease, and Madonna stared out the window, watching the world pass her by like a film she wasn’t part of. She wore a plain cream dress and held a bouquet of white tulips in her lap, provided by his assistant for the brief courthouse ceremony.
It felt like a parody of a wedding. No music. No vows. No kiss.
Just signatures and documentation.
When they arrived, the estate took her breath away. Not for its grandeur though it had plenty of that but for its loneliness. The building was made of cold stone and dark wood, sprawling and elegant. But it felt like no one lived there. The house exhaled silence.
Warren showed her to her room himself. "This is yours. You can decorate it however you want. If you need anything, speak to Helen, the housekeeper."
She nodded.
He turned to leave but paused. "I know this isn’t ideal for either of us," he said quietly. "But I’ll do my part. I won’t interfere with your life unless necessary."
"Why me?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Warren looked at her for a moment, long enough that she thought he might actually answer. But then he said, "You seemed like someone who wouldn’t complicate things."
And then he left.
Madonna explored the house over the next few days. It was vast and labyrinthine, with hallways that echoed and rooms that had clearly not been used in years. The kitchen was polished and efficient; the library was lined with books but smelled like leather and disuse.
She rarely saw Warren.
He left early in the mornings, returned late at night. Sometimes she heard his footsteps past her door, steady and unhurried. Once, she caught a glimpse of him reading in the study, glasses perched on his nose, completely unaware of her presence.
She didn’t understand him. But she didn’t try to, either. The terms were clear.
She found solace in small things: arranging her room with old books from the library, talking to Helen (a stern but kind older woman who treated her with professional courtesy), and cooking simple meals to fill the silence.
It was not the life she imagined. But it was peaceful. Predictable. And safe.
Until one evening, two weeks into the arrangement, she came down to find Warren already home, sitting at the kitchen island with his sleeves rolled up and a mug of black coffee in hand.
He looked up. "I didn’t think you’d be back so early."
"I went to the bookstore near the park," she said.
"Did you find something good?"
It was the first time he asked her a personal question.
"Yes. A collection of essays. I like reading things that make me feel less alone."
He nodded slowly, then looked down at his coffee.
After a moment, he said, "My mother used to say that books are the only friends that speak when spoken to."
Madonna blinked. It wasn’t quite vulnerability, but it was something close.
She stepped closer and placed her new books on the counter. "Would you like dinner? I made enough for two."
He hesitated. Then, to her surprise, he said, "Sure."
They ate in near-silence, but something had shifted. She caught him glancing at her more than once. And when she made a joke about how tasteless the carrots turned out, he actually smiled a real, if faint, smile.
It wasn’t love.
But it was a start.
And Madonna realized that perhaps the worst kind of mistake wasn’t marrying the wrong person.
It was not giving a chance to someone who might just turn out to be right.
That night, as she lay in bed, the rain started again. But it no longer felt like a knock on a closed door.
It felt like a whisper of change.
Chapter 2: A House with Locked Rooms
THE MORNING AIR INSIDE the Westwood estate was crisp, touched by the faint scent of pine and lemon polish. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows in thin golden beams that made dust motes dance like tiny fairies. Madonna woke up to the unfamiliar stillness, the kind that belonged to a house too large for two people and too old to ever truly be quiet.
Her room had begun to feel like her own. The walls, once bare, now held framed pages of poetry and watercolour sketches she found at a thrift market. The navy-blue curtains she ordered online finally arrived, replacing the stiff beige ones. Bit by bit, she was chipping away at the lifelessness of the mansion.
She padded down the hallway in thick socks, hugging a cardigan around herself. The house still felt cold despite the central heating, but not in temperature more in spirit. Like it had grown used to silence and didn’t know what to do with warmth.
The kitchen was empty when she arrived, but a pot of coffee had been freshly brewed. She found a note beside it.
Had an early meeting. Won’t be back until late. Warren.
It was the first note he’d ever left her.
A strange feeling stirred in her chest. Not butterflies, not excitement, but something quieter. A sense of being noticed.
She poured herself a cup and settled at the long dining table, opening one of her new books. But she couldn’t focus. Her eyes kept drifting to the window, the long garden path outside, the thick trees that enclosed the estate like sentries.
There was something odd about the house. Not eerie no cold spots or creaking floors but curious. She’d explored much of the downstairs and some of the second floor, but several doors had been locked. Some simply wouldn’t budge, and others were sealed tight with brass padlocks. When she asked Helen about them once, the housekeeper had simply said, "They’re not used anymore."
But Madonna was curious. This was her home now, however temporary. She wanted to know what lived in the corners of it.
Later that day, with the sun high and Helen busy in the laundry room, Madonna wandered up the second-floor staircase that curved like a spine through the centre of the house. She counted the doors as she passed them: six bedrooms, one library, a sitting room, and three locked doors.
She paused at the largest of the locked ones. The doorknob was ornate, a lion’s head with a ring through its mouth. The keyhole below it was old-fashioned.
What was Warren keeping in here? Or was it just another abandoned storage space?
She stepped away, unwilling to force anything. But her curiosity was only growing.
Back in her room, she opened her laptop and made a list of the rooms she hadn’t seen. Two were likely guest rooms. One could be a storage closet. But the biggest door, she guessed, was an office or something more personal. Maybe it had belonged to a parent or a sibling.
She pushed the thoughts away.
Warren came home after sunset. She was in the kitchen again, making lentil soup. The house felt less lonely with something simmering on the stove.
He looked surprised to find her still up.
"You cook a lot," he said.
"I like cooking," she replied. "It makes the place feel less... echoey."
A faint smile ghosted his lips.
"Did you eat already?" she asked.
"Not yet."
She nodded toward the pot. "You’re welcome to some. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm."
He joined her at the table, sitting across from her instead of at the far end like he had the first few times. He removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
"How was your meeting?" she asked.
"Productive. Annoying. The usual."
They shared a quiet meal. Madonna found it strange how easily they could slip into domestic moments like this even though there was no intimacy, no expectation. Just two people trying to be polite in a peculiar arrangement.
Halfway through the meal, she asked, "Why are some of the rooms locked?"
He paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth.
"Which ones?"
"The big one on the second floor, especially."
He set the spoon down slowly. "Some doors are best left closed."
It wasn’t cruel or cryptic. Just final.
"Sorry," she murmured, suddenly embarrassed. "I didn’t mean to pry."
He shook his head. "It’s natural to be curious. Just... that room holds things I’d rather not unpack."
Madonna didn’t ask again.
That night, she stayed up reading on the window seat, watching rain slide down the glass. The estate seemed to draw in the weather like a magnet. It rained at least four days a week.
She heard Warren’s footsteps in the hallway, steady and deliberate. A pause outside her door. Then retreating.
She didn’t sleep for a long time.
The following morning brought a strange visitor.
Helen came to her room just after breakfast. "Miss Madonna, there’s someone to see Mr. Westwood. He’s not home, but the gentleman insists on waiting."
Madonna followed her downstairs, curious.
In the front parlour, a man in a tan trench coat stood looking out the window. He was in his early thirties, with tousled dark hair and an air of easy confidence. When he turned to greet her, his smile was warm and familiar, though she’d never seen him before.
"You must be the wife," he said.
Madonna bristled slightly. "Yes. And you are?"
"Julian Thorn. Childhood friend. I used to come here a lot before everything changed. Warren didn’t mention me?"
"He doesn’t talk much about his past."
Julian’s smile faltered for a second. "No, he wouldn’t. Not after what happened."
Madonna tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
Julian glanced at Helen, then back at her. "Is there somewhere more private we could talk?"
She hesitated but led him into the reading room.
Once the door closed, Julian lowered his voice. "Warren has a good heart. But he’s wrapped in barbed wire. I don’t know why he married you, and I won’t pry. But I will say this don’t believe everything he shows you. He’s not the villain everyone paints him to be."
Madonna crossed her arms. "You’re telling me he has secrets? That’s hardly surprising."
Julian nodded. "He protects them with his life. But sometimes secrets fester. If you’re living here, you’ll see them eventually."
"Why are you telling me this?"
He looked at her intently. "Because you seem kind. And if anyone can bring light into this place, it’s someone like you."
She didn’t know how to respond.
When Warren returned later that evening, she mentioned Julian’s visit.
His face darkened. "He should’ve called first."
"He said you were friends."
"We were. Once. He talks too much. Don’t take anything he says too seriously."
He said it with such finality that she didn’t press further.
But that night, as she lay in bed, she found herself thinking about Julian’s words and about the locked doors, the silent halls, and the man who walked them like a ghost in his own home.
She had thought she’d entered a cold, calculated agreement. But now it felt like she had stepped into a mystery, one woven with old grief, unspoken truths, and quiet gestures of unexpected kindness.
And part of her, against all logic, wanted to unravel it.
Chapter 3: The Portrait Room
THREE DAYS PASSED BEFORE Madonna dared to return to the second-floor hallway where the locked door lingered in her memory like a whisper. The air up there always felt thicker, as if time passed differently in that part of the house. She didn’t plan to open anything she wasn’t even sure she could, but her feet led her there, quietly, in the late morning while Warren was at work and Helen had taken the car into town.
She paused in front of the lion’s head doorknob. There was something about the door, something symbolic. If she opened it, would she find a clue to Warren’s grief? His aloofness? Or just old furniture and forgotten boxes?
With a sigh, she turned away and wandered farther down the hallway.
To her surprise, a door she hadn’t noticed before stood slightly ajar. It was across from the locked one, tucked behind a narrow alcove. She hadn’t remembered seeing it, but then again, much of the house played tricks on her memory.
She pushed it open slowly.
The room beyond was dim, lit only by a small round window near the ceiling. Dust hung heavy in the air. And on the wall’s portraits.
Dozens of them.
Madonna stepped inside, heart beating a little faster. The room was small, square, and silent. The portraits were in oil and watercolour, pencil and ink. They depicted men and women in formal clothing, some sombre, some smiling. Children with sharp features. A boy in a sailor suit, a woman with piercing grey eyes, an old man with a hawk-like nose and a regal bearing.
And in the centre of the far wall Warren.
He couldn’t have been older than twelve in the painting. He stood straight, dressed in a black vest and tie, his hair neatly parted. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were unmistakable cool, intelligent, and burdened.
Next to him stood a young woman who looked like him slightly older, with auburn hair and a mischievous glint. A sister, maybe?
Madonna stood transfixed. She had never seen this side of him his youth, his family. The portraits looked meticulously cared for, despite the dust. Someone had loved these people once.
She ran her finger along the frame of the large portrait.
"They say a house remembers," a voice said behind her.
Madonna jumped, spinning around.
Helen stood in the doorway, holding a tray with tea and biscuits. "I thought you might be up here. This room tends to draw people."
"I didn’t mean to intrude," Madonna said quickly.
Helen smiled gently. "You're not intruding. You're part of the house now."
Madonna looked back at the painting. "Who are they?"
"The Westwood’s. Warren’s ancestors. That there," she pointed to the painting with Warren and the girl, "is Master Warren and Miss Liora. His sister."
Madonna turned sharply. "He has a sister?"
Helen’s smile faded. "Had."
Madonna’s breath caught. "What happened?"
Helen hesitated, then shook her head. "It’s not my place. But perhaps... one day, he’ll tell you."
That evening, Warren came home later than usual. Madonna had prepared a simple dinner again, and he joined her wordlessly. The silence between them was more companionable now. She noticed the weariness in his shoulders, the way he rubbed at his temple like a man haunted by thoughts he couldn’t quiet.
Halfway through the meal, she asked softly, "Who was Liora?"
His fork froze halfway to his mouth. Then, slowly, he set it down.
"You found the portrait room."
She nodded, unsure whether to apologize.
Warren leaned back in his chair. "Liora was my older sister. Two years ahead of me. Brilliant. Fierce. She used to scare the tutors."
A faint smile touched his lips, and for a moment, she saw him not as the composed businessman but as a younger brother with fondness and regret.
"She died when I was fifteen," he continued. "Accident. Horse riding."
Madonna felt her throat tighten. "I’m so sorry."
He nodded; his expression unreadable again. "My parents never recovered. My father drowned himself in work. My mother withdrew. The house... it grew quieter. Colder."
She wanted to say something comforting, but words felt too small.
Instead, she whispered, "She looks like you."
"She was better than me in every way."
Madonna wanted to argue that, but his tone made it clear he wasn’t inviting a rebuttal. Just truth, as he saw it.
They finished the meal in silence.
That night, Madonna sat on the window seat again, watching fog creep over the grounds like a living thing. She thought about Liora. About how tragedy could shape a house, a man. About how Warren had grown up surrounded by grief, taught to hide feeling behind formality.
And yet he had sat across from her. Told her something real.
The thought made her chest ache, oddly.
A week later, an envelope arrived. It was addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Westwood." The handwriting was careful and feminine.
Warren opened it at the table and frowned.
"What is it?" Madonna asked.
"An invitation. My mother wants to host a dinner."
Madonna blinked. "Your mother?"
He nodded slowly. "She usually prefers silence to spectacle. This is... unexpected."
She hesitated. "Do you want to go?"
He didn’t answer immediately. "I don’t know. But we should. For appearances."
The following Friday, they drove out to the Westwood family estate a smaller manor, older and far more traditional. Madonna had chosen a soft blue dress, modest but flattering, and tied her hair up at Warren’s request.
The housekeeper greeted them stiffly, leading them to the drawing room where Mrs. Westwood sat in a high-backed chair near the fireplace.
She was a thin woman, tall and severe, with silver hair pulled into a tight bun. Her face was pale, lips pursed in a way that made Madonna feel instantly judged.
"Mother," Warren said with a small nod. "This is Madonna."
Mrs. Westwood stood, extended a hand like royalty. Madonna took it, trying not to tremble.
"So you’re the girl," the woman said. Not unkindly, but not kindly either.
"It’s an honour to meet you, Mrs. Westwood."
"We’ll see," she replied with a glint in her eye.
Dinner was quiet, formal. Servants poured wine and changed courses without a word. Madonna tried to make conversation, but every topic seemed to fall flat. Warren sat rigidly, like a boy being watched.
Near the end of the meal, Mrs. Westwood turned to Madonna.
"Do you know why he married you?"
Madonna blinked, startled.
"Mother," Warren said sharply.
"It’s a fair question. I assume it wasn’t for love."
Madonna swallowed. "I believe we both had reasons."
"And do you believe those reasons will be enough?"
"I hope so," Madonna said quietly. "Sometimes that’s where love begins."
Mrs. Westwood studied her for a long moment. Then she looked away.
"We shall see."
In the car ride home, neither of them spoke for a while.
Finally, Warren said, "You handled her well."
"I wasn’t sure I did."
"Trust me. You did."
She looked out the window, watching the trees rush by.
"You didn’t answer her question," she murmured.
He glanced at her. "Which one?"
"Why you married me."
A long pause.
"I didn’t want to be pushed into a marriage by business partners, family expectations, or rumours. Choosing someone who didn’t come from those circles gave me leverage."
"So, I’m leverage."
"You were." His voice softened. "Now you’re something else. I just haven’t figured out what."
Madonna looked at him.
"Me neither," she said quietly.
That night, back in their own home, Warren paused outside her bedroom. She was already inside, brushing her hair.
He knocked gently and pushed the door open.
"Thank you," he said.
She turned. "For what?"
"For being honest. And brave."
She gave a small smile. "And for not answering everything?"
"Some things need time."
She nodded.
He lingered another second. "Goodnight, Madonna."
"Goodnight, Warren."
He closed the door gently behind him.
And for the first time since she entered this house, she felt something begin to open not a door, not a secret, but a heart.
Chapter 4: Cracks in the Wall
THE FIRST REAL CRACK appeared on a Tuesday morning. It wasn’t a dramatic outburst or a confession; it was quieter than that a moment between waking and routine, between formality and something gentler.
Madonna had taken to preparing breakfast early, mostly because the quiet of the kitchen soothed her nerves and allowed her to think. She liked making things with her hands things that didn’t ask much from her but still gave something back. That morning, she was whisking batter for pancakes when she heard footsteps behind her.
She expected Helen, but when she turned, it was Warren hair tousled, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. He looked... less polished, more human.
"Morning," he said, almost hesitantly.
"Morning," she replied, surprised.
He walked to the coffee machine like it was the first time he’d used it himself. For a second, he fumbled with the buttons, and she had to hide a smile.
"You press that one twice," she said gently.
He glanced back and gave a soft, almost embarrassed smile. "Right. Thanks."
They sat at the kitchen island, not across from each other like they did during dinners, but side by side. He sipped his coffee. She poured the batter. The silence wasn’t tense. It felt like a pause in a song.
"You used to cook often?" he asked after a moment.
"When I lived alone, yes. It calms me."
"It smells better than most things I’ve eaten this month."
She laughed, and he looked at her, slightly stunned, like he hadn’t heard her laugh before.
Later that day, Helen came in from the garden with a box in her hands.
"Found this in the storage shed," she said, placing it on the table. "Thought you might want to see."
The box was old wooden, with tarnished brass hinges. Madonna opened it slowly and found letters, photographs, a child’s drawing of a horse labelled "Storm." She smiled.
"That was Miss Liora’s," Helen said. "She kept her treasures in there. Warren used to sneak in and steal the drawings when she wasn’t looking. She’d chase him around the garden with a shoe."
Madonna looked at a faded photo two children, muddy and grinning, holding hands. Warren and Liora.
"He talks about her more now," she said quietly.
"That’s because you listen," Helen replied. "People only talk when someone’s really listening."
That evening, Madonna placed the box gently on the living room table. When Warren returned, he saw it almost immediately and froze.
"Helen gave it to me," she explained. "I didn’t go looking."
He approached slowly. His fingers ran over the lid, reverently.
"Storm," he murmured, lifting the drawing. "Liora loved that horse more than anything."
They sat on the floor, the box between them, as Warren pulled out items one by one. A broken compass, a small brass bell, a cracked snow globe.
"I haven’t seen this in years."
Madonna leaned in. "Why did you stop going into her room?"
He didn’t look at her. "Because after a while, it stopped feeling like her. It became just another room with dust and silence."
She watched him closely. "But you kept the door locked."
"To keep the silence inside."
The next morning, he offered her a ride into town.
"I thought you had a meeting," she said.
"I moved it. Come with me."
The town was quaint and a little sleepy. He parked outside a small café. They took a table near the window, and for the first time, it felt like a real outing not a performance.
They talked about books. About music. About food they missed from their childhoods. She confessed she once tried to run away from home and got lost two blocks away. He admitted he had nightmares about boarding school until he was seventeen.
"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked suddenly, catching herself off guard.
He blinked. "Shouldn’t I be?"
"You weren’t, at first."
He leaned back in his chair. "I was afraid."
That surprised her. "Of me?"
"Of what it meant to marry someone I didn’t know. Of what it meant to open again. I didn’t want another person I cared about to become a memory."
Madonna sat back, her heart softening.
"You know," she said, "if you keep talking like this, I might actually start to like you."
He smiled. "Then I should definitely keep going."
They returned to the house just before dusk. As they entered, the phone rang. Warren answered it in the foyer.
Madonna lingered nearby, catching only fragments.
"No, I said next week. That was the agreement... No, I don’t want her involved in that... Yes, she’s here... Yes, she’s, my wife. And that means she’s none of your business."
He slammed the receiver down.
Madonna stepped into the hallway. "Is everything all right?"
Warren looked at her, tense. Then he exhaled slowly.
"Just some people from the board. They like to think marrying you means they get to ask questions."
"Sorry to be such an inconvenience," she said lightly.
He looked at her, eyes serious. "You're not. Not anymore."
Later, as Madonna prepared for bed, there was a knock at her door.
Warren stood there, holding a small box.
"This belonged to my grandmother," he said. "She used to say a home isn’t real until it has music."
He opened the lid and wound the key. A soft melody filled the room something gentle and melancholic.
"Thought it might help. You said you have trouble sleeping."
Madonna felt her throat tighten. She reached out and touched the music box lightly.
"Thank you."
He nodded and stepped back.
"Goodnight, Madonna."
"Goodnight, Warren."
As the door closed, the music lingered. So did the warmth in her chest.
And the cracks in the wall between them widened letting in something like light.
Chapter 5: Whispers in the Rain
RAIN ARRIVED OVERNIGHT, washing the skies and soaking the garden until even the roses drooped under the weight of it. By morning, the entire house had the soft hush that only wet days bring muffled sounds, slow footsteps, warmth behind glass.
Madonna lingered by the window of the upstairs study, a book open in her lap, though she wasn’t reading. Her eyes were on the garden path, blurred by the rain and dappled with puddles. Helen was right. Something had shifted. Warren wasn’t as cold anymore. There were glances that lingered, silences that no longer felt empty.
She heard his footsteps before she saw him. Warren entered the study with two mugs, setting one down beside her.
"Ginger tea," he said. "Helen says it’s good when the weather changes."
"Thank you," she replied, accepting it. Their fingers brushed for the briefest moment, and he looked at her, unreadable.
They sat in silence, sipping. The rhythm of the rain became their backdrop.
"I’ve been thinking," he said finally, "maybe we should redecorate Liora’s room."
Madonna turned to him in surprise. "You want to change it?"
He hesitated. "Not erase her. But make it into something new. She’d hate to think of it as a tomb."
Madonna nodded. "We can do it together."
That afternoon, armed with gloves and a vacuum, they entered the room together. The air smelled faintly of old fabric and lavender. Madonna peeled back the curtains, letting light in for the first time in months.
"Let’s start with the closet," she suggested.
Inside were stacks of old clothing, childhood trophies, and a pair of ballet slippers that had lost their shape. Warren picked them up slowly.
"She danced for six years," he said. "Quit because someone laughed at her during a recital. She never admitted it, but I saw the tears."
They sorted through the items carefully. Madonna didn’t ask questions she let him offer memories when he was ready.
"Do you want to keep these?" she asked about a stack of sketchbooks.
He nodded. "She was good. Better than I ever told her."
By evening, the room looked bare but somehow freer. They sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes.
"Thank you for doing this with me," Warren said.
"Thank you for letting me."
Dinner that night was informal. Helen brought soup and crusty bread to the table. The rain still tapped gently at the windows.
"Feels like a proper home again," Helen said, smiling.
Afterward, Warren surprised her again.
"Do you want to go for a walk?"
"In this weather?"
"Why not? We have umbrellas."
They wandered through the garden, sheltered beneath a large navy umbrella. The path was slick, the roses heavy with rain, but the air was fresh and alive.
"I used to hide in the greenhouse," he said. "When I couldn’t deal with things. Liora always found me. Brought me cookies. Told me bad jokes."
"You miss her."
"Every day. But it’s not just grief anymore. Sometimes I remember her and smile. That’s new."
Madonna stopped walking. "That’s healing."
He looked at her then really looked. "You make it easier."
The words settled between them, neither heavy nor rushed. Just real.
They returned to the house, soaked at the hem and laughing. Madonna peeled off her damp coat, still grinning.
"You laugh more now," Warren said, watching her.
"So do you."
A beat passed. Then another.
"Madonna," he said softly, "this marriage started all wrong. I know that. But I don’t want it to stay wrong."
She blinked. Her breath caught.
"What do you mean?"
He stepped closer. Not touching, but close enough for warmth.
"I want to get to know you. Really know you. Not because I’m obligated, but because I want to. You’re not just someone I live with you’re... someone I look forward to seeing every day."
Her heart thudded. She didn’t know what to say.
"Is that okay?" he asked.
She nodded slowly. "Yes. It is."
And for the first time since the day she’d signed those marriage papers, she felt hope blooming like the rain-washed roses outside.
Later, in bed, she turned the music box he’d given her. The melody played softly in the dark. The rain had quieted, leaving only the occasional drip from the gutters.
She touched the locket at her neck the one her mother had given her, the one she hadn’t opened in years. Inside was a picture of her as a child, and a folded piece of paper with a quote: Love doesn’t always come the way we expect, but it always leaves a mark.
She thought of Warren. Of the umbrella walk. Of the warmth in his voice.
Maybe she had married the wrong person.
But maybe, just maybe, that mistake was becoming something beautiful.
Chapter 6: A Glimpse Beyond the Veil
A WEEK PASSED, EACH day quietly etching a new rhythm between Madonna and Warren. The routines that once felt stilted began to flow with unexpected ease. Conversations came without effort. Even the silences grew warmer, companionable, as if their hearts had started to hum a tune only they could hear.
On Thursday, Madonna stood in the attic with a roll of fabric in one hand and a vision in her mind. She wanted to turn Liora's old room into a creative studio a space full of light, color, and new beginnings. Warren had agreed, saying it sounded like something Liora herself would have loved. He didn’t join her that morning; he had a meeting in the city. But Madonna didn’t mind the solitude. It gave her space to think.
The attic was cluttered, as attics always are old trunks, dusty mirrors, forgotten Christmas decorations. But it was the mirror tucked behind a stack of boxes that caught her attention. Oval-shaped, set in a golden frame with ornate carvings of vines and birds, it had a strange shimmer to it, as if it held more than just reflections.
She dragged it out and leaned it against the far wall. When she stepped back, her own image stared back at her only, for the briefest moment, it wasn’t just her. Behind her shoulder, she thought she saw a girl, smiling, with a braid falling over one shoulder.
Madonna turned quickly. No one was there. She shook her head. Just her imagination, stirred by dust and memory.
Still, her skin prickled.
When Warren returned that evening, his mood was lighter than usual. He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and walked straight to the kitchen, where Madonna was peeling carrots for dinner.
"You look like someone who has good news," she said.
He leaned against the counter. "Board approved the new expansion. We’re going ahead with the youth scholarship program."
Her eyes lit up. "That’s incredible! I remember you mentioning it before. You said it was something you and Liora dreamed about."
He nodded, his voice softening. "We always wanted to give back especially to kids who didn’t have the chances we did. She’d be proud today."
Without thinking, Madonna reached out and squeezed his hand. He didn’t pull away.
"Congratulations, Warren."
His eyes met hers. "Thanks for listening. For remembering."
After dinner, they settled into the library. Warren pulled out a bottle of wine he had been saving for a "special occasion," and for the first time since their wedding, they toasted together. No ceremony. No pretence. Just two people, beginning to see each other clearly.
They talked late into the night. About things that mattered. About things that didn’t. They laughed. They paused. And in one of those pauses, Madonna asked, "What were you like at sixteen?"
He groaned. "Awkward. Angry. Trying too hard to be perfect. My father was stricter back then. I hated disappointing him."
She studied him. "Do you think you still carry that around with you?"
He looked into his glass. "Some days, I think I do. But not as much since you came."
Madonna’s heart fluttered. Words like that didn’t come easily from him.
Later, as she climbed the stairs to bed, she found herself drawn to the attic again. Something about that mirror tugged at her curiosity.
She lit a small lamp and walked across the room. The mirror stood where she had left it. Her reflection was clear, unchanged. She took a step closer. Her hand hovered near the surface.
And then she heard it a giggle. Faint, like the memory of a sound. She turned quickly.
"Hello?"
Nothing. Just shadows.
She stared into the mirror again. Her reflection blinked. Moved. Perfectly synchronized. But her eyes it looked like they held a different expression. Hopeful. Peaceful.
Madonna stepped back.
The attic felt colder than before.
The next morning, she told Warren.
"I know it sounds ridiculous," she said, stirring sugar into her tea. "But it was like... I felt her presence. Like the room was holding its breath."
Warren didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He set down his coffee and leaned in.
"I’ve felt it too. Not in the attic, but sometimes in the garden. Or in her room, before we cleared it out. Like she’s still watching over this place."
Madonna smiled. "Then maybe we’re not imagining it."
"Or maybe we just loved her too much to ever let go."
That weekend, they began painting Liora’s old room. Madonna chose a soft sage green. Warren handled the edges while she filled in the wide spaces. They got paint on their hands, their clothes, and even on each other’s faces.
At one point, she slipped while reaching for a corner and stumbled into his arms. They both froze, inches apart.
"Sorry," she said, breathless.
"Don’t be," he murmured, his hands steadying her.
Her eyes met his, and for a heartbeat, the world stopped.
But she pulled away gently. Not yet. Not now.
He didn’t press. He just smiled and handed her the roller.
