“I commissioned it from Marley’s workshop,” Owen explained “I thought… That is, I noticed you often sit in that old rocking chair with her. It didn’t look very comfortable, so I had this one made for you.”
Iris stepped closer and ran her fingers over the polished wood. The chair was beautiful. It looked like it belonged in the room—well-made, well-chosen. But what struck her most was the thought behind it. Owen had paid attention.
“It’s lovely,” she remarked, though the comment didn’t feel like enough. “Thank you.”
“The cushions come off for washing. Marley said that the fabric holds up well.” Owen cleared his throat. “If the color doesn’t suit, we can change it.”
She shook her head. “It’s perfect.” She lowered herself into the chair, letting it take her weight. It was more comfortable than she’d expected. “Truly perfect.”
Silence fell between them. Not unfriendly, just uncertain. She let the chair rock gently because she was unsure what to say next. Owen stood there, watching her like he was waiting for something.
“How did the interview go?” he asked at last.
“Terribly.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it. “Miss Grimsby was more interested in gossip than childcare. She spent ten minutes trying to extract details about Evie’s birth and your whereabouts during my supposed confinement.”
Owen’s expression darkened. “What exactly did she ask?”
“Whether Evie resembles you or me. About the secrecy surrounding her birth. The usual speculation disguised as professional inquiry.” Iris continued rocking, finding the motion soothing. “I dismissed her.”
“Good.” He moved to the window and stared out at the garden. “We’ll find someone suitable. Someone who understands discretion.”
“Will we? Because this was the fourth interview this week, and each one has followed the same pattern. Professional qualifications followed by fishing expeditions about our private affairs.” She stopped rocking and allowed the frustration to bleed through her careful composure. “Perhaps the problem isn’t the candidates. Perhaps it’s us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’ve created a situation so unusual that any competent nurse would have questions. A baby who appeared without warning, a household built on secrets and careful lies.” She gestured helplessly. “What kind of environment is that for Evie?”
Owen turned away from the window. His gray eyes stared at her intensely. “She’s safe. Fed, warm, loved. What more does she need?”
“Stability. Honesty. Parents who can be in the same room without looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.”
“We’re managing.”
“Are we?” Iris rose from the chair and paced toward Evie’s cradle. The baby slept soundly, oblivious to the strained atmosphere between the two people who were claiming to be her parents. “We’re barely surviving, Owen. You disappear at dawn to avoid breakfast. I take my meals in my room to avoid dinner conversation. We conduct our entire relationship through servants and carefully timed absences.”
“It’s better this way.”
“Better for whom? Certainly not for Evie. She deserves parents who can at least pretend to care for each other.” She turned to face him fully.
“You want honesty?” His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear him. “Here’s honesty. I’m terrified that if I let myself care for you the way I want to, the way you deserve, I’ll become someone who destroys everything good in his path.”
The raw confession rocked her to the core. “Why does it terrify you?”
“Because want becomes need, which, in turn, becomes obsession. Because passion destroys everything it touches. Because I watched my parents tear each other apart with the same hunger I feel when I look at you.”
“We are not your parents.”
“And I’m not the man you deserve.” He moved closer, and she could see the war raging behind his careful control. “You want love, Iris. Real love, honest love, the kind that builds families and creates homes. Not possession. Not the twisted hunger disguised as devotion. I don’t know how to give you that without destroying us both.”
“So, you give me furniture instead?” She recognized the brusqueness in her own voice, but could not stop herself from pressing further. “A beautiful chair to make my loneliness more comfortable?”
“I give you what I can.”
“It’s not enough.” She shook her head. “This half-life we’re living, this careful dance around each other, it’s not enough for me, and it’s certainly not enough for Evie.”
Evie stirred and let out a soft whimper. It was the kind that always came just before she woke up.
Owen and Iris both turned toward the cradle. She was grateful, if only for a moment, to focus on something else.
