From His Silent Bride to the Queen of Comebacks

The snow had soaked through Lydia's dress. She knelt at the edge of the porch, the puppy tucked against her chest, his tiny body barely warm now. Her arms trembled from the cold-or maybe from the fear that she was already too late. She held him tighter, as if her warmth alone could will him back to life. "Hang in there," she whispered, though no sound left her lips. Her breath came in shallow clouds, disappearing into the storm. The wind howled louder, flinging snow across her face, her hair, her skin. Each gust stung like needles, but she didn't move. She couldn't. The puppy gave a final, tiny twitch. Then, nothing. The puppy no longer moved. Lydia froze. Her fingers pressed against his side, desperate for the faintest movement. A breath. A heartbeat. There was none. The last bit of warmth drained from his body-and from hers. Lydia pulled it closer, her breath catching painfully in her throat. She had tried. She had sacrificed what little dignity she had left. But even that hadn't been enough. She lowered her head, resting her forehead against his fur. Snow clung to her lashes, melted on her cheeks. Or maybe those were tears. She couldn't tell anymore. She sat there for a long time, until the storm quieted and the wind no longer screamed. Until the ache in her arms turned numb. Until the puppy grew cold. Then, slowly, she rose. Her knees shook. Her fingers burned. But she moved. When she finally stood, her legs barely held her weight. She stumbled to the far end of the garden, where the snow hadn't yet buried the ground completely, and began to dig with her hands. The cold bit into her skin, but she didn't stop until the hole was deep enough. She laid the puppy down gently and covered him with earth. When it was finished, she stood in silence for a long moment. The next morning, Clara had just finished getting ready to go out. She wasn't expecting the ragged figure that suddenly stumbled into view, making her stumble back with a sharp gasp. When she got a good look, it was Lydia. Her lips were a terrifying blue, her face pale as paper, and her hair and lashes were dusted with brittle frost. Surprised, Clara blinked. "Oh dear," she said, voice laced with concern. "You're still out here?" Lydia didn't respond. Clara stepped forward, gently taking her by the arm and guiding her inside. "And the puppy?" she asked, voice soft, almost motherly. "Is he...?" Lydia's hands moved slowly, deliberately. -He's dead. Clara paused for half a second, then offered a sympathetic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "How awful. I'm so sorry. You must be heartbroken." She turned away, crossing the room to the mirror in the entry hall. She ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing out imaginary imperfections. Her gaze flicked over her reflection with quiet satisfaction. As she adjusted the collar of her blouse, the fabric shifted-just enough to reveal a faint red mark on her neck. Faint, but unmistakable. Lydia froze. Her breath hitched, eyes locking on the mark like a blade had sliced through her chest. She couldn't look away. Clara caught her staring. Her soft expression twisted-sweetness curdling into something sharp and cruel. She stepped closer, heels silent on the polished floor, and leaned in until her lips were near Lydia's ear. "What's wrong?" she whispered. "Does it hurt?" A pause. Then, lower, colder: "Oh, don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at him. But come on, look at you. You're just a servant. Nothing more." Just then, footsteps echoed down the hall. Clara's expression shifted instantly. She raised her voice, loud and remorseful, almost theatrical. "Miss Abbott, it was my fault yesterday. I overreacted. I'm so sorry-" A cold voice cut through the air. "What are you apologizing for?" Lydia turned. Henry stood at the end of the corridor, leaning heavily on a cane. He looked pale but his eyes were sharp as ever. "Henry?" Clara gasped, spinning toward him in delight. "You're awake?" She rushed to his side, hand reaching for his arm, but stopped short when he shot her a look colder than the wind outside. Clara flinched and quickly stepped back. "I... I was just telling her," she began, her voice faltering, "about the dog. It's gone. It's my fault, I-" "The dog?" Henry glanced down, brows twitching. "It died?" He exhaled sharply. Not a sigh. A scoff. "It was a stray. Strays die. That's what they do." Lydia's chest tightened. She stared at him, eyes red, hands trembling as they lifted to sign-fast, furious. -How could you say that? It was alive. It trusted me. It trusted you. You killed it. Henry's gaze darkened. "That look," he said quietly. "Are you blaming me?" Her hands moved again, more frantic. -You didn't even look at him. You didn't care. Something snapped. Henry stepped forward, his voice low but shaking with restrained fury. "Don't forget-your father destroyed mine. Everything you are, everything you have, is because I let you live in this house. I raised you. Fed you. And you still look at me like I'm a monster?" He stopped just inches from her. His voice dropped lower. "You think you're the victim here? You think I owe you something?" Lydia's lips parted, but no sound came. She was trembling, her whole body taut with anguish. "You don't get to hate me, Lydia," he said. "Not when your last name is the reason I can't walk without this." He tapped the cane against the floor. Once. Hard. Her eyes welled again, but she didn't look away. For a second, Henry's expression flickered-something like regret, or maybe exhaustion. But it vanished as quickly as it came. He turned away. "Let's go," he said to Clara. Clara eagerly stepped to his side, casting Lydia a sideways glance full of victory. "Don't be angry, Henry," she cooed. "You need to rest." They walked past her. Lydia collapsed to her knees, coughing silently, one hand at her throat. The other pressed against the cold marble floor. She lifted her head, vision swimming. All she saw was the exhaust of the car pulling away.