From His Silent Bride to the Queen of Comebacks

Snow drifted down in slow, silent layers, cloaking the Lawson estate in a bone-deep stillness.

Lydia Abbott knelt at the front steps, her arms wrapped tightly around the frail body of the stray puppy she had rescued that morning. Her dress clung to her skin, damp and freezing, and her fingers-red, cracked, and nearly numb-barely moved as she cradled the animal close.

The puppy's breathing was faint now, its small chest barely rising beneath the folds of her coat.

Above them, one window on the second floor still glowed with warm light. Behind the curtain, Lydia could see two silhouettes-close, intimate, unmistakably entwined. Then, the light went out.

She didn't need to guess what happened next.

A cold, hollow ache bloomed in her chest, worse than anything the wind could deliver. She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to the puppy's fur.

"You said you'd come back for my birthday," she thought bitterly.

Henry had returned, just as he said he would, but not for her. He came back with another woman by his side.

Just an hour earlier, the house had been still and quiet.

Lydia stood in the living room, her eyes fixed on the small cake sitting on the dining table. It was nothing fancy-just something she had managed to prepare herself, with cream, fruit, and a single candle waiting to be lit. The sweet scent had filled the air, softening the edges of her nerves.

It was her birthday. Her twentieth. Henry had promised he would be home.

She glanced at the clock. 11:40 p.m. Twenty minutes left.

Lydia told herself not to hope. But she had already dressed, already laid out the cake, already lit the faintest warmth in her chest. And beside her, the little puppy lay curled on a blanket, still shivering from the cold. She had found him near the front gate, abandoned and whimpering, and couldn't bring herself to leave him.

Headlights sliced through the window.

Her heart jumped. She moved quickly, lighting the candle and switching off the lights. Then she stood beside the door, breath caught in her throat, a smile threatening to rise.

The door opened, but her smile fell away.

Henry stepped inside, tall and composed, the snow still clinging to his coat.

He wasn't alone. A woman clung to his arm-flawless makeup, heels clicking against the floor, her lips curled into a smirk Lydia couldn't quite name.

Clara Spencer gave Lydia a once-over, brows raised. "Oh? Who's this?"

"She's just a mute maid," Henry replied lazily, not even glancing at Lydia.

The words struck like a slap. Lydia stood frozen, her fingers curling around the edge of her skirt.

Clara let out a soft laugh and lifted one foot. "Well? Help me with my shoes."

Lydia hesitated. Her gaze flicked to Henry, hoping stupidly for some sign he might stop this, might remember what today was.

He didn't. He only looked at her, his expression unreadable.

She knelt without a word. Her hands trembled slightly as she undid Clara's heels and replaced them with slippers.

Clara made a show of stamping her feet, satisfied.