Chapter 55: The Unseen Struggle
The morning light filtered through the curtains, but something felt wrong.
Serene woke with a heaviness in her limbs, a dull ache already beginning to coil in her lower belly. She lay still for a moment, taking inventory of her body, hoping it was nothing.
Then she remembered.
Her monthly. It was almost time. And she had nothing—no supplies, no pain relief, no way to manage any of it in this strange apartment where she was still learning where everything lived.
She sat up slowly, pressing a hand to her stomach.
Please. Not today. Not when I finally have plans.
But her body didn't care about plans. Her body had its own rhythm, its own demands, its own relentless schedule.
---
She dressed carefully, moving slower than usual, already feeling the first waves of discomfort. When she entered the kitchen, she found Ethan already there—still in his dressing gown, coffee in hand, staring out the window.
He turned when she entered.
"You're up early."
She nodded, not meeting his eyes. The distance between them had grown since the lipstick incident, and she'd done nothing to bridge it. Didn't want to bridge it.
"I'm not going to the office today." His voice was casual, but something flickered in his green eyes. "Thought I'd stay in. Work from here."
Her heart sank.
No office meant no opportunity to slip out. No gallery. No Margaret. No secret life.
She forced a nod and moved past him to the kitchen, hoping he wouldn't notice the slight stiffness in her walk, the way she held herself carefully.
---
The morning crawled.
Ethan set up at the dining table with papers and a laptop, occasionally making calls in low tones. Serene retreated to the drawing room with a book, but she couldn't focus. The pain was building—a slow, relentless cramping that made it hard to sit still.
She curled into the armchair, pulling her knees up, pressing a hand to her stomach.
When had she last had her monthly? Before the wedding, probably. Before everything. The stress, the grief, the upheaval—her body had been in survival mode, and cycles had become irregular.
But now it was here. And she had nothing.
No supplies. No pain medicine. No hot water bottle. Nothing but the clothes on her back and the small box of money hidden beneath her bed.
---
By afternoon, she could barely move.
The cramps had intensified, sharp and relentless, radiating through her lower back and down her thighs. She'd retreated to the bedroom, lying curled on her side, breathing through waves of pain that left her lightheaded.
She needed supplies. Desperately.
But Ethan was still here. Still working at the dining table. Still occupying the space between her and the door.
She couldn't ask him.
The thought was unbearable—explaining, signing, watching his face shift through confusion to pity to whatever else. He was a man. He wouldn't understand. Couldn't understand.
She'd rather suffer in silence than ask him for help.
---
The hours passed.
The pain grew worse.
By late afternoon, she was trembling, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cold. Her stomach churned nausea, and the cramps had become so intense that each wave stole her breath.
She couldn't do this alone.
But she had no choice.
---
Ethan noticed something was wrong around five o'clock.
He'd finished his work, made his last calls, and realized he hadn't seen Serene in hours. The drawing room was empty. The kitchen was empty. A flicker of unease prompted him toward the bedroom.
He knocked softly. "Serene?"
No response.
He knocked again. "Serene, are you alright?"
Nothing.
He opened the door.
---
She was curled on the bed, facing away from him, her body rigid with pain. Even from the doorway, he could see her shaking.
"Serene!" He crossed the room in seconds, kneeling beside the bed. "What's wrong? What happened?"
She turned her head slowly, and he saw her face—pale, drawn, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Her hands moved weakly, but the signs were too small, too trembling for him to read.
He grabbed her notepad from the bedside table, pressing it into her hands.
She wrote with difficulty, her fingers clumsy:
Monthly. Very painful. Need supplies. Medicine.
He read the words, and understanding dawned.
"Your—" He stopped, color rising in his cheeks. "You need... things. For—"
She nodded, closing her eyes against another wave of pain.
---
Ethan stood frozen for a moment, utterly out of his depth.
Then he moved.
"I'll be back." He was already grabbing his coat. "Don't move. I'll be back as fast as I can."
He was gone before she could respond.
---
The pharmacy was three blocks away.
Ethan ran the entire way, his heart pounding for reasons he didn't want to examine. He'd never done this before—never bought these things for anyone. What did women need? What was the right thing? What would help her?
He found a clerk—a kind-faced woman in her fifties—and forced himself to speak.
"I need... supplies. For my wife. Monthly. She's in a lot of pain."
The woman's expression softened with immediate understanding. "Of course, dear. First time buying for her?"
He nodded, embarrassed.
"Don't worry. We'll get you sorted."
She guided him through the aisles, explaining things he'd never thought about. Pads. Pain relievers specifically for cramps. A hot water bottle. Herbal tea that helped with discomfort. Chocolate—"always chocolate," she said with a knowing smile.
He bought everything she suggested, plus extra of whatever seemed important.
---
When he returned to the apartment, he found Serene exactly where he'd left her—curled on the bed, pale and trembling.
He set the bags on the bedside table, his hands gentle as he unpacked.
"I didn't know what you needed. The clerk helped. She said—" He stopped, awkward. "She said these things might help."
Serene looked at the supplies—the pads, the medicine, the hot water bottle, the tea, the chocolate—and something in her chest cracked open.
He'd done this. For her. Without hesitation, without judgment, without making her feel like a burden.
She reached for her notepad.
Thank you.
He read the words, his green eyes soft.
"Of course. I should have—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "You should have told me earlier. I would have gone sooner."
She shook her head slightly. Didn't know how.
He understood. Or seemed to.
"Can I get you anything else? Water? Tea? The clerk said the tea might help."
She nodded, exhausted.
---
He brought her tea—hot, with honey, the way she liked it. He filled the hot water bottle and placed it gently against her stomach. He left the medicine within reach, the chocolate beside it.
"I'll be in the drawing room," he said quietly. "If you need anything—anything at all—just call. Or knock on the wall. I'll hear."
She nodded, already drifting toward sleep, the warmth of the hot water bottle easing the worst of the pain.
He paused at the door, looking back at her—pale and small in the big bed, surrounded by the things he'd bought.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For not noticing sooner. For not being here when you needed me."
Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him.
---
She slept for hours.
When she woke, the worst of the pain had passed. The cramps were still there, dull and persistent, but manageable. She sat up slowly, reaching for the tea—still warm, he must have replaced it—and sipped.
On the bedside table, beside the chocolate, she found a note.
In case you wake and need me. I'm here.
—E
She pressed the note to her chest, her eyes burning.
He'd stayed. He'd helped. He'd done everything right.
But he still didn't know about the lipstick. Still didn't understand why she'd pulled away. Still thought everything was fine between them.
She should tell him. Should explain. Should—
She was too tired.
Too broken.
Too confused.
Tomorrow.
She'd deal with it tomorrow.
For now, she'd rest.
For now, she'd let herself be cared for.
For now, she'd pretend that everything was fine.
---
The next morning, she woke to find fresh tea on her bedside table and a small vase of flowers—winter jasmine, pale and fragrant, the same flowers that had grown near the greenhouse.
Beside them, another note:
These reminded me of you. Beautiful even in winter.
—E
She held the flowers, breathing in their delicate scent, and cried.
Not from pain this time.
From something else entirely.
Something she wasn't ready to name.
---