Nothing changed.
That was the first thing Mia noticed.
No reprimand.
No tightened rules.
No sudden coldness that could be pointed at and named.
The routine resumed as if the dinner conversation had never happened — and that unsettled her more than punishment would have.
Breakfast arrived at the usual hour. Transportation waited at the same time. Her schedule remained intact, untouched by emotion. The house continued to move with its steady, controlled rhythm.
She told herself that was proof.
He doesn't care, she thought. That's why nothing changed.
Yet she felt watched in a different way now — not more closely, but from farther away. As if the attention that had once hovered quietly at the edges had stepped back, leaving space that felt oddly hollow.
At breakfast, Theon did not sit with her.
He had missed meals before. That wasn't new. But this absence felt deliberate, even though no one announced it as such.
She ate alone.
The dessert course did not return.
She noticed immediately, and hated herself for it.
The day unfolded with procedural precision.
At work, she was efficient. Focused. She completed her tasks without error, spoke only when necessary, avoided lingering conversations. If she was being tested for loyalty, she reasoned, then discipline was the safest posture.
She kept her head down.
But the silence followed her.
At lunch, she overheard staff discussing logistics, supply orders, upcoming changes in rotation. Someone mentioned Theon had worked through the night again. Someone else commented that he hadn't been seen resting in days.
Mia pretended not to hear.
He chooses that, she reminded herself. People like him always do.
Still, something about the tone unsettled her — not admiration, not complaint, but a kind of acceptance that felt heavy.
Theon noticed the changes too.
He noticed that Mia no longer lingered in shared spaces. That her questions had become strictly functional. That she no longer hesitated before speaking — but also no longer volunteered anything unnecessary.
Her behavior was… perfect.
Consistent. Reliable. Detached.
Exactly what loyalty, on paper, looked like.
And yet, it left him inexplicably tired.
He did not comment on it.
He did not ask if anything was wrong.
He adjusted schedules. Signed approvals. Reviewed reports.
He stopped asking if she had eaten.
Not out of spite — out of recognition.
She had drawn a line.
He respected lines.
____________________
Days passed.
Then a week.
The house learned a new equilibrium.
Mia worked, studied, slept. She fulfilled every requirement placed before her. She didn't test boundaries. Didn't ask for anything beyond necessity. Didn't linger in the library longer than allowed. Didn't request additional permissions.
She told herself she felt freer this way.
Less observed.
Less entangled.
But at night, when the house settled and the quiet pressed in, she found herself listening for sounds she hadn't realized she'd grown accustomed to — footsteps passing her door, distant movement long after midnight.
Some nights, she didn't hear them.
Some nights, she did.
One evening, she returned to her room to find a document placed neatly on her desk.
Not a book.
Not chocolate.
Not tea.
A schedule.
Updated. Revised.
Her work hours had shifted slightly — earlier start, earlier finish.
She frowned, scanning the details.
It aligned with her lecture timings more efficiently.
She told herself it was coincidence.
_____________________________
Theon reviewed reports late into the night.
The staff routines had been adjusted again — minor changes, barely noticeable. Meal times redistributed. Breaks staggered. Coverage tightened in some areas, loosened in others.
Efficiency improved.
Losses minimized.
He worked without interruption.
When exhaustion crept in, he ignored it.
He had learned long ago how to function that way.
Mia noticed he no longer asked her anything personal.
No casual observations. No "long day?" No quiet reminders to eat.
Only instructions, when necessary. Only acknowledgments, when required.
She told herself that was better.
Professional.
Predictable.
And yet, she caught herself glancing at the empty seat across from her at dinner more often than she wanted to admit.
__________________________________
One afternoon, she made a mistake.
It was minor — a misfiled report, corrected quickly once discovered. Nothing that would have mattered under normal circumstances.
But the loyalty test made everything feel amplified.
She reported the error herself.
The senior employee nodded. "I'll inform him."
Mia's chest tightened.
That evening, she was called to the study.
Theon stood when she entered, already holding the file in question.
"You corrected this," he said.
"Yes," she replied. "As soon as I noticed it."
He nodded. "Good."
That was it.
No reprimand. No warning.
She waited, heart pounding, expecting something more.
Nothing came.
"You may go," he said.
She left with a strange mix of relief and disappointment she couldn't explain.
_________________________________
That night, she found a cup placed on her desk.
Empty.
Clean.
The kettle sat beside it.
She stared at it for a long moment.
He's just maintaining routine, she told herself.
Nothing else.
She made tea anyway.
________________________________________
The next day, she overheard someone mention Sinclair Corporation again.
A shipment had arrived. Installation schedules were being adjusted.
She didn't know why the name lingered in her mind.
______________________________________________
Theon walked through the corridors with his usual composure, his presence steady, unremarkable in its consistency.
People moved around him easily — not fearfully, not familiarly. Respectfully.
He noticed the way Mia no longer looked at him unless necessary.
He told himself it was for the best.
Misunderstandings did not improve with proximity.
___________________
At dinner one night, she sat down and realized, belatedly, that she was hungry enough to feel lightheaded.
She had skipped lunch without meaning to.
She waited for the question that did not come.
She ate quickly.
Across the table, Theon focused on his plate
without comment.
He did not notice.
Or perhaps he did — and chose not to act.
She didn't know which was worse.
Something subtle shifted over time.
Not resentment. Not anger.
Acceptance.
Mia stopped bracing herself. Stopped preparing for a betrayal she now assumed would never come — not because he was incapable, but because he simply didn't care enough to bother.
That belief settled into her bones.
And Theon, watching her become precisely what the system required — compliant, efficient, distant — felt a weariness that had nothing to do with work.
He did not name it.
He did not examine it.
He continued.
The loyalty test continued.
It tested silence.
It tested restraint.
It tested how long two people could coexist without ever trying to understand each other again.
And both of them passed.
On paper.
________________________________
Late one night, Mia walked past the dining room and paused.
The table was set for breakfast already — the staff always prepared early. Plates aligned. Cups placed.
She noticed, distantly, that there was no dessert course planned.
She didn't know why that mattered.
She told herself it didn't.
She moved on.
Theon closed another file and leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly.
For a moment — just a moment — he allowed himself to feel how tired he was.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
He straightened again almost immediately.
There was work to do.
________________________________________
By the end of the week, the house had fully adapted.
So had they.
What had been said at dinner became something neither of them revisited — not because it was resolved, but because it had settled into place like an unmovable fact.
Mia believed she had seen him clearly.
Theon believed she never would.
And somewhere beneath the smooth surface of routine, the cost of that belief continued to accumulate — quietly, patiently — waiting for the moment it would finally matter.