Page 13 of Her Possessive Dominant Fake Husband

"I’m just tired," she said, her voice so small it barely existed.

"Claire," I tried again, not even sure what I was supposed to be saying. "Look, I—this will get easier."

She met my eyes, a painful sincerity in her gaze. "Will it?"

I’d never been good at softening the truth. "No," I said. "Probably not."

I watched her process this, saw how desperately she tried to pull herself together. She wasn’t as invincible as I'd thought. That realization hit harder than expected.

"You’ve done so much for me, Alexander," she said, choking back another sob. "I can’t let you down."

"Let me down?" I asked, genuinely confused. "You’re not—"

"I didn’t think it would be this hard," she said, cutting me off, her confession tumbling out like she’d been holding it in for years. "I feel so alone here. Like I’m drowning in nothingness."

Her words found some dormant part of me, one I thought I’d buried long ago.

She continued, her voice steadier but no less broken. "And then Jen showed up, and I just—I thought I’d be free of her for now. Mostly, anyway."

Her admission was raw and real, so unlike the polished lies I was used to. I found myself wanting to shield her, even from her own family.

"You’ll adjust," I said, but my voice lacked conviction. I realized I had no idea what she’d been through. No wonder the dinner had hit her like a freight train.

"It’s just so hard pretending," she said, each word heavy with the truth of it.

The irony of her statement almost made me laugh. Pretending was the only thing I'd ever excelled at.

Her vulnerability made something shift inside me, and I didn’t know if I liked it.

"Claire, I—" The words caught, tangled in unfamiliar territory.

She waited, silent and expectant, and it dawned on me that no one had ever relied on me for anything like this.

"—underestimated you," I said, my voice finally finding confidence. "I thought this would be easier for you."

It was a poor echo of what she needed to hear, but I watched as some of her warmth and radiance returned.

"You’re a lot stronger than I thought," I added, surprised to find that I meant it. Her resilience, her honesty—it was all beginning to gnaw at the walls I’d put up.

She blinked, taken aback by the compliment, if you could call it that. Her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, a crack in the sorrow.

A sudden urge to reach out and touch her shoulder, to offer something real, washed over me. I stifled it, unsure if I was more afraid of her reaction or mine.

"I’ll give you some space," I said instead, retreating to familiar ground. "Let you... collect yourself."

She nodded, a simple gesture that whispered grace and gratitude. "Thank you," she said, her voice a whisper of its former strength.

I walked away, the distance between us both a relief and a regret. As I left her there, I realized she wasn't the only one suffocating under the pretense of this arrangement. Her presence, her unexpected hold on my thoughts—was cracking open parts of me I didn’t even know existed.

Back in the confines of my home office, I tried to bury myself in work, but Claire's tears kept returning to haunt me. I wasn’t as detached as I needed to be, not even close.

I found her the next morning at the kitchen island, her usual sunshine dimmed by a night of worry. My chest tightened at the sight, a reaction I despised almost as much as my family. I had a plan—orderly, controlled—and Claire unraveling right before my eyes wasn’t part of it.

"These came for you," I said, setting a small box on the counter like a grenade. Her fingers trembled as she opened it, eyes widening at the contents. A strange satisfaction crept in with my discomfort. She was not what I expected. Not at all.

She lifted the book from its wrapping, her expression a mix of shock and nostalgia. "How did you—?" she asked, her voice full of awe.

"You mentioned it," I said, trying to sound casual as I leaned against the counter, pretending to check my phone. It was an act of war, this small token. I wasn’t supposed to care.

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