Chapter 117: Chapter 117: Controlled
The moment we get back from the hospital, I go upstairs.
Not quickly enough to look dramatic, not slowly enough to invite conversation either. Just direct. The kind of movement that makes it obvious I have no intention of stopping anywhere along the way.
I can feel Bael behind me while we walk through the entrance hall, close enough that the awareness of him sits between my shoulder blades the entire time, but I don’t look back once.
By the time I reach my room and close the door behind me, my chest already feels tight again.
The prescription bag sits on the small table beside the bed after I toss it there carelessly. I change clothes slowly, pulling on softer pants and one of the loose sweaters I’ve basically stolen permanently from the back of the closet because the fabric doesn’t press uncomfortably anywhere.
My back still aches faintly, but not badly enough for medication yet.
I stare at the white paper bag for a second.
Then I look away from it deliberately.
Because the medication matters less than what it represents right now. If the pain gets worse later, I can take it. If I need help, there are solutions that don’t involve letting Bael touch me again.
That thought settles something restless in my chest slightly.
I leave the room before my thoughts can keep circling and head toward the study instead.
The house is quiet in the comfortable way it usually is on weekends, staff moving somewhere downstairs, distant sounds from the kitchen fading in and out underneath the silence. Normally I like it here at this hour. Normally the quiet helps.
Today it mostly just leaves too much room to think.
I sit down at the desk and open my laptop.
Work helps.
At least work behaves predictably.
The Dingshan files are still open from yesterday, the revised plans Elliot sent over waiting for adjustments before Monday’s meeting. Grandmother’s project proposal is sitting in a separate folder too, untouched for now because I haven’t decided how I want to approach it yet.
I focus on the western cluster tolerances first.
Numbers are easier than emotions. Structural calculations don’t suddenly shift because somebody looked at me differently for a few weeks and made me start hoping for things I already know better than to hope for.
I work for almost an hour before the ache in my back starts becoming genuinely distracting.
At first I ignore it.
Then I start shifting slightly every few minutes without meaning to.
Then I realize I’m rereading the same line repeatedly because the discomfort is slowly eating through my concentration.
I lean back carefully in the chair and close my eyes for a second.
The baby moves faintly.
My hand settles against my stomach automatically.
"I’m fine," I mutter quietly to absolutely nobody.
The annoying part is that physically, I probably am fine.
Emotionally is becoming a different issue entirely.
I hear the study door open behind me.
Of course.
I don’t turn around immediately.
Bael walks in without saying anything, his footsteps quiet against the floor before stopping somewhere behind me. When I finally glance back, he’s loosened his tie and removed his jacket, sleeves rolled up again the same way they were this morning.
For some reason, seeing him dressed casually inside the house affects me more lately than seeing him in formal clothes ever did.
Maybe because it feels too domestic.
Too close.
"You disappeared upstairs," he says.
I look back toward the laptop. "I had work."
A pause settles behind me.
Then his footsteps move again, this time crossing further into the room instead of leaving.
"I sent the revised financial reports to your email earlier," he says. "For Grandmother’s project."
"I saw them."
"And?"
"I’ll review them tomorrow."
Another pause.
Then the chair across from mine pulls back softly and Bael sits down. Just like that. Like he plans on staying.
I try ignoring him at first.
Really.
But it’s difficult being aware of someone with Bael’s presence. Even silent, he somehow occupies space completely, calm and steady and impossible to tune out once he’s nearby.
I keep working anyway.
Or pretending to.
Ten minutes later my back tightens sharply enough that I inhale through my teeth before I can stop myself.
Across the room, typing stops immediately.
I curse internally.
"Runze."
"It’s fine."
The response comes too fast.
Bael doesn’t answer right away and that somehow feels worse than if he argued.
When I finally glance up, he’s already watching me. Not casually either.
Closely.
Like he’s been paying attention this entire time.
"You’ve barely stopped moving since I came in."
"I’m sitting in a chair. Minor movement is generally expected."
His expression doesn’t change. Then he stands.
My stomach drops instantly because I already know exactly what he’s about to do.
"Bael—"
Too late.
He reaches me before I can stand properly, his hands settling against my shoulders with calm certainty, fingers pressing into the tense muscles at the base of my neck before sliding lower along my back.
And the terrible, horrible thing is that it feels good immediately.
Not just physically.
That’s the real problem.
Because the pressure is exactly right, firm enough to ease the ache without hurting, and my body reacts before my brain does, tension loosening in slow unwilling increments underneath his hands while relief spreads warm and dangerous through my spine.
A breath leaves me quietly before I can stop it.
Bael’s hands pause slightly at the sound.
Not stopping.
Just slowing.
And suddenly all I can think about is the kiss, his mouth against mine, the way I’ve been slipping around him ever since, the way I almost leaned into him downstairs this morning over something as stupid as breakfast and concern and attention.
I know exactly where this goes if I let it continue.
That’s the frightening part.
Because I already know myself well enough to understand what happens if Bael keeps touching me like this while acting like I matter to him beyond obligation and responsibility and the child I’m carrying for him.
Eventually I’ll fall all the way back in again.
And when Bael inevitably reminds me that this marriage was never really built on the things I keep wanting from him, it’ll destroy me properly this time.
I move before I can think too hard about it.
I stand up quickly enough that his hands slide away from me entirely and step around the side of the desk, putting space between us.
The sudden absence of contact feels awful.
Which only proves my point.
Bael looks at me quietly.
I hate that expression lately.
That focused stillness whenever he realizes something important is happening underneath the conversation.
"I’ll take the medication if it gets worse," I say.
My voice sounds controlled.
Too controlled.
Bael’s eyes stay on my face for another second before shifting briefly toward the prescription bag sitting near the bookshelf.
Then back to me.
"You’d rather take pills than let me help you."
It’s not phrased like a question.
And somehow that makes it harder to answer.
Because yes.
Obviously yes.
I would rather do almost anything right now than let Bael become physically gentle with me again while I already feel like this.
But I can’t exactly say that out loud.
So instead I just look away first and sit back down.
The silence afterward feels wrong.
Bael returns to his chair eventually, but something in the atmosphere has already changed beyond fixing.
We don’t speak again while I work.
At dinner, Grandmother isn’t present, which leaves the table quieter than usual.
I eat because skipping meals lately only makes Mrs. Wen anxious and because the medication finally ended up being necessary after all, one tablet swallowed discreetly upstairs before dinner when the pain became too distracting to ignore.
Bael barely touches his phone the entire meal.
I notice because I keep noticing him lately even when I’m actively trying not to.
That realization irritates me enough that I finish quickly and leave almost immediately afterward under the excuse of work.
Back in the study, I force myself through another hour of revisions before finally shutting the laptop a little after ten.
My eyes ache.
My back is better now, dull instead of sharp.
Emotionally I feel exhausted in a way sleep probably won’t fix.
I gather my files and stand slowly.
The study door opens just before I reach it.
Bael steps inside.
He closes the door halfway behind him before looking at me.
"Done?"
I nod once. "Mm."
I don’t stop moving.
The moment I reach him, planning to pass straight through the doorway before he can start another conversation, his voice comes quieter this time.
"Runze."
Something about the tone makes me pause despite myself.
Not authority, not irritation, something else.
I look at him properly for the first time since dinner and realize he looks... careful.
Not uncertain exactly.
But restrained in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen from him before.
"We should talk," he says.
I’m suddenly so tired.
Not physically, just tired of trying to survive every interaction between us without falling apart internally afterward.
"I don’t have the energy for another conversation tonight," I say honestly, then start moving again.
I almost make it past him.
Then his hand catches my wrist lightly, just enough to stop me.
Before I can react properly, his arm slides around my waist from behind and pulls me back against him with quiet familiarity.
Everything inside me stops.
Bael’s body is warm against my back, one hand spread low across my stomach while the other steadies at my waist like this is natural, like we’ve done this recently enough for the movement to still belong to muscle memory.
Maybe it does.
I can feel his breathing near my ear.
His scent wraps around me immediately, clean and familiar and devastatingly comforting in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.
"Come back to our room tonight," he says softly.
Our room.
Not the room, not my room.
Our.
And God, that one word almost destroys me.
Because for one awful second, I want to say yes.
I want to turn around and bury my face against him and stop fighting so hard against something that already feels halfway inevitable anyway.
I want to believe him.
That is the worst part.
Not him.
Me.
The fact that after everything, I still want to believe him so badly.
My throat tightens painfully.
Then reality crashes back in hard enough to hurt.
This marriage, everything Bael himself already told me before.
I pull away from him immediately.
Fast enough this time that the movement almost feels abrupt.
"I’m not going back."
The words come out sharper than I intended.
Bael goes still behind me.
I turn around before I can lose my nerve completely.
"And it’s not our room," I say, my voice unsteady now despite my efforts to control it. "It’s yours."
Bael’s expression changes slightly.
Just slightly.
But enough that adrenaline rushes through me anyway because I suddenly realize I don’t understand what he’s thinking at all right now.
Maybe I never did.
"We don’t have to pretend between ourselves," I continue before I can stop myself. "Or have you forgotten what this marriage actually is?"
Silence.
Complete silence.
Bael just looks at me. No immediate response, no denial, no correction.
And somehow that hurts more than if he’d argued. Because if he disagreed, wouldn’t he say so?
My chest feels tight enough to ache now.
I don’t want to stay here long enough to start searching meaning into his expression again the way I used to.
So before he can speak, before I can regret saying any of it, I turn around and walk out of the study.
This time, Bael doesn’t stop me.
