Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 42: What Happened?

Sarah

I decide to stay home for the day. After last night, going to work was the last thing on my mind. I put on a full-sleeved shirt so Marishka does not see my wounds and worry, then head down to breakfast.

As I step into the dining room, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm toast fills the air.

For a moment, I let myself pretend that everything is normal. That last night didn’t happen.

But the ache in my body tells me otherwise.

"Morning," I say, keeping my voice light as I pull out a chair.

Marishka turns, her sharp eyes scanning me like they always do. She doesn’t miss much.

"You’re up late," she notes, placing a plate of food in front of me. "Not going to work?"

I shake my head, picking up my fork. "Taking the day off. Didn’t sleep well."

Her gaze lingers on me for a second too long, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she slides into the chair across from me, cradling her mug of coffee between her hands.

"You look pale," she says after a beat. "Are you feeling sick?"

I force a small smile. "Just tired."

She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go.

I push my eggs around my plate, my appetite nonexistent. My mind keeps flashing back to last night—to the way Matthew looked at me, the way his touch changed from anger to something else entirely.

I take a slow sip of my coffee, trying to ground myself.

Marishka sets her cup down with a quiet clink. "You know, if something’s wrong, you can tell me, right?"

I grip my mug a little tighter.

But I can’t tell her. I don’t want to.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. "I know."

She watches me for another moment before sighing. "Alright. Just...take it easy today, okay sweetheart?"

I nod again. "Did Matthew leave for work already?"

Marishka raises an eyebrow at my question, her fingers tapping lightly against her mug. "He left early," she says carefully. =

I swallow, pretending to focus on my coffee.

Marishka studies me, her expression unreadable. "Did something happen between you two?"

I force a small laugh, shaking my head. "No. Why?"

She shrugs, but there’s something calculating in her gaze. "Just a feeling. He was tense this morning. More than usual."

I push a piece of toast around my plate, my stomach twisting. I shouldn’t have asked about him—it only makes her more suspicious.

"I’m sure it’s just work," I say, keeping my tone light. "He always has a lot on his plate."

Marishka smiles. "So do you. I hope you are not overworking yourself."

I don’t respond to that. "Marishka, can I ask you something?" I ask instead.

She looks at me questioningly. "Sure, anything."

"Did...did something happen to me when I was little?" I ask hesitantly.

Marishka’s expression shifts, her smile faltering for just a fraction of a second before she masks it with a neutral look. She sets her coffee down carefully, her fingers wrapping tightly around the handle.

"Why do you ask?" Her voice is even, but I catch the slight tension beneath it.

I shrug, forcing myself to appear casual even though my heart is pounding. "I just... I’ve been having these weird feelings. Like there’s something I don’t remember, but it’s there, buried somewhere."

Marishka exhales, tapping her fingers against the table. "Sarah, everyone forgets things from their childhood. It’s normal."

That’s not an answer.

I watch her closely. "So nothing happened?"

She hesitates. And that’s all I need to know.

"Marishka," I press, my voice quieter now. "Please. If you know something, tell me. I can handle it. Did someone ever lock me inside a dark room?"

Marishka stiffens. It’s subtle—just the slightest tightening of her fingers around the mug, a flicker of something in her eyes—but I see it.

I know that look.

She knows something.

"Sarah," she says slowly, carefully. "Why would you ask that?"

I grip my coffee cup a little tighter, my knuckles whitening. "Because I think it happened. I don’t remember everything, but I remember the feeling. The fear. The darkness." I swallow. "And last night, I—" I stop myself, shaking my head. "I just need to know the truth."

Marishka exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. "I promised your parents I wouldn’t—" She stops as if realizing she’s already said too much.

A chill runs down my spine. "Wouldn’t what?"

She looks away, her jaw tightening. "Sarah, some things are better left in the past."

No. Not this.

"Marishka, please," I plead. My voice cracks, and I hate how desperate I sound, but I don’t care. "I need to know. I deserve to know."

She closes her eyes for a long moment, then lets out a shaky breath.

"I am sorry, I can’t," she finally says, her voice barely audible. "You will have to talk to your parents about this."

Frustration coils tight in my chest.

I knew she was hiding something, but I never expected her to shut me down so completely.

"My parents?" I echo, my voice laced with disbelief. "Marishka, they never tell me anything. If they wanted me to know, they would’ve told me by now."

She sighs, pushing her coffee aside. "It’s not my place, Sarah."

"But you do know something," I press. "Please. Just tell me—was I locked in a room? Did someone do it to me?"

She hesitates, eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, with a sad shake of her head, she rises from her chair.

"I’ve said all I can."

I watch her walk toward the sink, her back turned to me as she rinses her cup. The conversation is over.

But the way her hands tremble just slightly as she sets the mug down tells me one thing.

She’s afraid.

I stand up. There is no point in pressing her about this. I can tell she won’t tell me anything so I decide to do something else. I decide to surprise Matthew with lunch.

Maybe it’s a distraction. Maybe it’s an excuse. But either way, I need to get out of this house before the frustration suffocates me.

If Marishka won’t tell me the truth, then I’ll find my own way to deal with it.

I throw on a light jacket, grab my bag, and check my reflection in the mirror. I still look pale, my eyes slightly shadowed from lack of sleep, but I ignore it.

I stop by a café on the way, ordering black coffee and a roast beef sandwich. I hesitate before adding a pastry to the order.

By the time I reach his office, my nerves are starting to catch up with me. What if he doesn’t want to see me?

Who am I kidding? Of course, he does not want to see me, but I want to do this anyway.

I push the thought down and step inside the building.

Donna looks up in surprise as I approach. "Miss Wilson?" She blinks, clearly not expecting me. "I thought you had the day off."

I force a small smile. "I do. Just thought I’d bring Matthew lunch. Also, it’s Mrs. Jameson now, remember?"

Donna laughs. "Oh, yes. My mistake. He is in his office."

I take a steadying breath and walk down the hall, my grip tightening on the bag of food.

I knock lightly before pushing the door open.

Matthew is at his desk, but he isn’t working. He’s staring at his phone, deep in thought, his fingers curled around it like he just read something he didn’t like.

He looks up when I step inside. "Sarah," he says, setting his phone down. "What are you doing here?"

I lift the bag slightly. "I brought you lunch."

For a second, he doesn’t move. "Is it poisoned?"

For a moment, I say nothing but then let out a soft giggle. "Very funny, but no."

Matthew smirks. "Shame," he murmurs, leaning back in his chair. "Would’ve taken me out of my misery once and for all."

I roll my eyes, stepping forward to set the bag on his desk. "Just eat your sandwich."

He watches me for a beat before reaching into the bag and pulling out the coffee first. He takes a sip, then raises a brow. "Black. You do remember."

"Of course, I remember," I say, sitting down across from him.

Matthew eyes me over the rim of his coffee cup. "You’re not eating?"

"I had breakfast at home," I reply.

Matthew pushes away from his desk, the wheels of his chair gliding silently across the polished floor. He rises, his movements fluid and controlled, like a predator’s. The afternoon light catches on his wedding band as he rounds the desk, and for a fleeting second, I remember the day he slipped it on my finger, how hopeful I’d been.

He approaches slowly, deliberately, and despite myself, I tense. My body remembers even when I try to forget.

"I spoke with Marishka this morning," I say quickly, desperate to fill the space between us with words rather than silence.

He pauses, just a foot away from me now. "Did you?"

"I asked her about my childhood," I continue, watching his expression carefully. "About whether I was ever locked in a dark room. Because I truly do not remember anything. I want to know why...why I reacted like that in the basement."

He takes another step closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, a scent that once comforted me but now makes my stomach knot with anxiety.

"And what did she say?" His voice is low, almost gentle, but there’s an edge to it that makes me wary.

"Nothing," I admit. "She wouldn’t tell me anything."

Matthew suddenly grabs my arms and pushes my sleeves up. I hold my breath, watching his face, waiting for his reaction.

The scratches are dry and healing but still very red. I really did a number on my skin last night.

Matthew’s expression changes, the cool mask slipping for just a moment. His fingers hover over the marks, not quite touching them, as if seeing them has rendered him suddenly gentle.

"You need to put more ointment on them," he says softly.