Three days after acquiring the title of Mrs. Arventine, Zeraida discovered that her new husband managed his private residence with the rigid structure of a corporate enterprise.
"Breakfast is served at precisely seven-thirty each morning," the head housekeeper explained politely as two male attendants carried Zeraida's luggage through the expansive entrance hall. "Evening dinner takes place at seven, unless President Arventine informs us of a schedule modification."
"Schedule modification?" Zeraida echoed, her eyebrows rising slightly as she observed the stiff demeanors of the household staff.
"President Arventine dislikes irregular daily routines," the head housekeeper clarified, adjusting her hands behind her back.
Zeraida glanced around the immaculate interior of the primary foyer, taking in the sterile atmosphere that permeated the estate. Every marble fixture gleamed, not a single white lily stood crooked within its glass vase, and every decorative cushion appeared placed with geometric accuracy.
I have successfully managed to marry a human clockwork mechanism, she thought, dry amusement stirring beneath her calm exterior.
"And if I request breakfast at ten o'clock instead?" Zeraida asked, pausing near the grand staircase to gauge the response.
The head housekeeper hesitated for a brief second, taken off guard by the unexpected question. "Then your breakfast will be freshly prepared at ten o'clock, Madam."
"Excellent," Zeraida said with a approving nod. "It appears we are making progress already."
They continued up the wide marble stairs, their footsteps echoing off the tall walls.
"Your private residential suite occupies the eastern corridor of the second floor," the housekeeper guided, gesturing toward the right wing. "President Arventine's quarters are located directly opposite the central gallery."
Separate living quarters. At the very least, Xaviere was upholding his explicit contractual promises regarding their daily independence.
Zeraida stepped through the double doors into her assigned suite, discovering a spacious master bedroom, a walk-in dressing room, a private bath, a sitting area, and a stone balcony overlooking the manicured rear gardens.
"What about the personal belongings brought over from my apartment?" Zeraida inquired, walking toward the French doors.
"President Arventine explicitly instructed us to accommodate every item you wished to bring," the housekeeper replied from the doorway.
That detail caught Zeraida by surprise, causing her to turn around to face the woman. She had fully expected Xaviere to order the disposal of her modest possessions, replacing them with designer labels deemed suitable for his family name.
Perhaps the stubborn corporate president could follow basic agreements after all, she noted silently.
Later that afternoon, Zeraida explored the sprawling mansion alone while the staff tended to their routine duties. The house was enormous, its maze of high-ceilinged hallways stretching so far that she nearly took two wrong turns before reaching a distant passage on the western wing.
Unlike the bright, sunlit spaces throughout the rest of the residence, this specific corridor felt noticeably cooler. The curtains remained pulled tight over the narrow windows, casting deep shadows along the dark carpet toward two double doors at the end.
"Madam," a cautious voice called out from behind her, breaking the stillness.
Zeraida turned to see the head housekeeper standing several yards back, looking visibly uncomfortable.
"That particular section of the house is restricted," the housekeeper informed her in a low, careful tone.
"Restricted?" Zeraida repeated, turning back toward the closed entrance.
"Those are President Arventine's strict instructions," the woman explained, remaining at a respectful distance.
Zeraida studied the imposing wooden doors, her curiosity piqued by the sudden air of secrecy surrounding the hallway. Before she could ask any further questions, the sound of measured leather footsteps approached from behind.
"What are you doing in this part of the house?" a deep, familiar voice demanded.
Xaviere had returned from the corporate offices of Arventine Holdings, still wearing his dark suit jacket and looking entirely composed. His expression, however, carried a cold, unyielding edge that surpassed his usual stern demeanor.
"I was simply exploring the residence I now legally inhabit," Zeraida answered, turning her body to face him.
"Not this wing," Xaviere stated firmly, closing the remaining distance between them.
Zeraida raised an eyebrow at his blunt delivery, refusing to be cowed by his sudden arrival. "I gathered as much from the locked doors."
"You are never to enter this corridor," he commanded, his posture rigid and unyielding.
His authoritative tone immediately rankled her temper, stirring a sharp retort to her lips. "You might attempt requesting things politely instead of issuing direct orders to me."
"This matter is non-negotiable," Xaviere replied, his dark eyes locking onto hers.
"Everything involving my presence in this house remains open to negotiation," she countered smoothly.
"Not this room," he insisted, his voice dropping into a quiet, firm register.
Something subtle in his expression halted the sarcastic reply Zeraida was preparing to deliver. It was not mere anger or irritation driving his harsh response.
There was a far heavier emotion lurking beneath his icy mask, hidden deep within his guarded posture.
Zeraida's gaze shifted back toward the sealed double doors, noting the absence of dust despite the wing's isolation. Realization slowly settled over her mind, connecting the pieces of his tragic history.
"Evelyn?" Zeraida asked softly, her voice carrying no hostility.
Xaviere became utterly still, his breathing shallow as his eyes hardened into stone. That reaction alone provided all the confirmation she required.
"Her personal belongings are preserved inside?" Zeraida questioned, maintaining a neutral tone.
"Some of them," Xaviere admitted after a long silence, his jaw tight.
Zeraida studied the man standing before her in the shadow-draped hallway. The front-page wedding photographs published across the nation that morning portrayed Xaviere as a powerful billionaire captivated by his new bride.
Yet here he stood, merely three days into their paper marriage, guarding another woman's memory behind locked wooden doors.
Strangely, Zeraida felt no surge of jealousy or personal offense. They had established clear boundaries from the very beginning, making no empty promises of affection or romantic devotion.
"Fine," Zeraida said simply.
Xaviere's dark eyes narrowed slightly, caught off guard by her immediate compliance. "Fine?"
"I will not enter this wing," she confirmed, keeping her promise even and clear.
He continued to watch her, looking suspicious of how effortlessly she accepted a restriction that most high-society wives would fight against. Zeraida folded her arms over her chest, meeting his guarded gaze without faltering.
"I already informed you at the club, Xaviere," she reminded him, her voice entirely calm. "I have zero desire to compete with a dead woman."
His jaw tightened further, but he offered no verbal response to her words. For several seconds, an unbroken quiet hung between them in the dim passage.
Zeraida turned on her heel, preparing to head back toward the main gallery.
"Besides," she added, looking over her shoulder with a faint smirk, "I have more than enough difficulty dealing with the living Arventine."
Silence followed her as she walked away, her footsteps light against the runner carpet.
Zeraida allowed a brief smile to touch her lips at having the final word in their argument. Yet as she navigated back toward the warmth of her own suite, her lighthearted amusement gradually diminished.
One persistent thought remained in her mind, haunting her despite her indifference to their arrangement. Evelyn had been dead for several years, yet Xaviere maintained an entire wing where her memory remained completely untouched by time.
Zeraida did not want his heart, nor did she desire his love. She had made those boundaries crystal clear before signing a single paper.
Still, as she stepped into her bright bedroom, she could not stop the quiet question from surfacing in her mind.
Just how much of Xaviere Arventine was buried alongside her?