At first, I didn't think much of it. Amelia had always carried herself with a quiet elegance, her expression never betraying her emotions, no matter how much pain she was in. So, when I saw the slight change in her—how she would press a hand to her temple when she thought no one was looking, how she gripped the edges of furniture when she stood up too quickly—I assumed it was just exhaustion.

She had been under a lot of stress. That much was clear. Michael was rarely home, and when he was, his mind was elsewhere. On her.

The staff whispered about it constantly.

"Sir has been with Miss Saddie again."

"They had dinner last night, didn't they?"

"Do you think Mrs. Valemont knows?"

Of course, she knew. She always knew.

But she never spoke about it. Never cried, never screamed, never let a single word slip from her lips about the man who was supposed to be her husband spending his nights with someone else.

Instead, she carried herself with quiet dignity, walking through the halls like she was untouchable.

But I saw it. I saw the way she barely touched her food at breakfast. The way she would rub her temples as if fighting off a never-ending headache. The way her fingers sometimes trembled when she picked up her teacup. And I knew what it was. Because I had read this story before.

Amelia was pregnant.

The day I knew something was wrong started like any other. Amelia had gone to her piano room after breakfast, like she had been doing more often these days. She spent hours there now, practicing with a kind of focus I had never seen in her before. It was like she was trying to drown out the noise of her failing marriage, trying to fill the emptiness Michael had left behind with music instead.

I wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not. I wanted her to leave him. To run. To save herself. But I also knew she wasn't ready. She wasn't there yet.

She was still waiting for him, even if she didn't realize it. I sighed, wiping my hands on my apron after finishing some tasks for the day. Deciding to check on her, I made my way to the piano room. The soft sound of music floated down the hallway, delicate and filled with longing.

And then it stopped. Sudden. Abrupt. Then, silence. Something wasn't right.

I hurried toward the door, pushing it open just in time to see Amelia gripping the side of the piano, her entire body trembling.

"Amelia?" I rushed forward.

She didn't look at me. Her face was pale, her breathing uneven. And then—before I could reach her—she staggered. I caught her just as her knees buckled.

"Amelia!" I held onto her, lowering her gently onto the piano bench. Her skin was cold, despite the sweat forming on her forehead. Her fingers clenched weakly against my arm, her entire frame shaking.

She swallowed thickly, her lips trembling. "I—I just need a moment."

No. This wasn't normal exhaustion. She had been hiding it, pretending like she was fine, but she wasn't. I knew exactly what this was.

"Amelia, when was the last time you ate?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

She let out a weak laugh, her head tilting back against the piano. "This morning," she murmured. "Or... was it last night?"

I clenched my jaw. She had no idea. I had to get her out of here. She needed rest, food—something.

"Come on," I said, looping an arm around her shoulders. "We're going back to your room."

She stiffened but didn't resist. I helped her up, walking slowly toward the door, but just as we reached the hallway, she jerked away.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I don't want to lie down."

"Amelia, you almost fainted," I argued.

"I don't care," she whispered, her voice stronger now. "I don't want to lie there and wait for him."

Her hands clenched into fists. I stared at her, my chest tightening. Because I understood now.

She knew Michael wasn't coming home. She knew he was with Saddie, and she knew that if she went to her room, all she would do was wait. Wait for a man who had stopped choosing her a long time ago. And she was done waiting. Instead of resting, she turned back to the piano. And started playing.

I stayed with her the rest of the day. I brought her water, made sure she ate something, but she didn't stop playing.

Her hands moved over the keys with a kind of fierce desperation, pouring every emotion into the notes, as if the music was the only thing holding her together. And maybe it was. Because even though her body was weak—Even though her hands trembled between pieces—Even though her heart was breaking—She kept playing.

And for the first time since I arrived in this world, I saw her take her pain and turn it into something else. She wasn't playing for Michael. She wasn't playing for her marriage. She was playing for herself. And maybe—just maybe—this was the first step to saving her.