Leigh wasn't asking to be seen.
But everything she did screamed louder than silence.
She didn't wait for permission.
She just… existed—firm, quiet, defiant.
She wandered the Montemayor mansion like a ghost with unfinished business.
She didn't belong here.
But somehow, she made space.
The house no longer rejected her presence.
The staff no longer questioned her authority.
She fixed things. Rearranged. Cleaned. Cooked.
Watered the dying plants. Changed the curtains. Organized the pantry.
She mended a broken chair in the library. Sorted old bills in the study.
She put everything in order—except herself.
And no one stopped her.
Not even him.
Ervin Dale Montemayor—the man who once held her fate like fire in his hands—said nothing.
Not a word.
Not a glance.
Not a shred of warmth.
He moved around her like she didn't exist.
Or worse—like she was an inconvenience.
As if her presence was a reminder he wanted to erase.
And Leigh? She didn't demand kindness.
She just did what needed to be done.
---
He started drinking again.
But this wasn't casual indulgence.
This was destruction disguised as routine.
Whiskey. Rum. Whatever burned fastest.
He'd stumble into the mansion reeking of liquor and regrets, muttering curses into the night air. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Santiago tailing him like a guard dog on its last thread of patience.
There were nights he collapsed in the foyer.
Nights he didn't even make it to the stairs.
Nights he shouted at no one, breaking glasses just to hear something shatter louder than him.
Still, when morning came—
A clean towel and a bowl of water would be beside his bed.
Warm broth. Soft slippers. A light left on in the hallway.
Every single time.
And he knew.
It was Leigh.
---
Santiago noticed.
"You're wasting away," he snapped one evening as Ervin slouched against the kitchen counter, half-drunk, eyes glazed.
Ervin scoffed, grabbing another bottle from the fridge. "Didn't ask for a therapist."
"She's the one taking care of you," Santiago said, tone tight. "And you treat her like trash."
"She should stop," Ervin muttered, popping the cap. "No one's forcing her."
"You could at least acknowledge her."
Ervin turned, eyes sharp, cruel. "Acknowledge what? That she's playing house again? That she's acting like she belongs?"
Santiago clenched his jaw. "You're pushing her away. And one day, when she finally leaves for good, don't expect anyone to blame her."
Ervin didn't respond. He didn't have to.
The venom was already spilling from his silence.
---
Leigh heard none of it.
Or maybe she did.
But she never reacted.
She continued folding his clothes with clean, practiced hands.
Wiping blood off a wine glass he smashed last week.
Replacing the flowers in the dining room before they wilted.
Ervin's coldness didn't change her.
And that only made him colder.
He wanted her to snap.
Wanted her to throw something.
To scream, curse, tell him he was cruel.
But she never did.
She just stayed.
Quiet. Present. Unyielding.
It was infuriating.
---
One night, he caught her in the hallway.
She had just finished cleaning his study. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her fingers smelled faintly of lemon polish.
He stood there, drunk and bitter.
"I didn't ask you to play maid," he slurred.
She looked at him, blankly.
"And I didn't ask to be married to a man who can't even look me in the eye," she said softly.
His laugh was cold. Sharp. "Is that what you think this is? A marriage?"
She didn't answer.
"You're just a leftover, Leigh. A name on paper. Nothing more."
She didn't flinch. But he saw the way her throat moved as she swallowed.
Still, she walked past him. Slowly. Silently. With dignity he could never touch.
---
Later that night, he collapsed into bed fully clothed.
The room spun.
His head ached.
And then… the cool press of a damp towel touched his forehead.
Leigh.
Kneeling beside him again. Unshaken. Unmoved by the poison in his words.
She didn't speak.
Didn't look at him.
She simply replaced the towel and reached for another.
He opened his eyes, barely.
Her face was calm. Her eyes tired. Her hands steady.
He hated that.
He hated that she still cared.
But he said nothing.
Didn't move.
Didn't thank her.
Didn't even meet her gaze.
He closed his eyes again, pretending to sleep.
And she?
She didn't wait for anything more.
She stood. Took the bowl. Left the room without a sound.
---
The hallway echoed with her steps—slow, even, resolute.
And Ervin…
He lay there.
Still. Cold. Drowning in his own silence.
Even as the scent of ginger broth and lavender lingered like guilt he refused to feel.
Even as the lamp she replaced cast a warm light across his hollow chest.
He didn't stop her.
He never did.
Because if he opened his mouth now…
He might break.
And Leigh?
Leigh was the only thing in this house still whole.