Arthem | Got accused of an affair?!

The journey home had been longer than Arthem expected.

Two months away from the estate had left him exhausted, both physically and mentally. Endless reports, negotiations, inspections, and the burden of responsibilities had followed him day and night. By the time the gates of his estate finally came into view, every muscle in his body ached. All he wanted was a bath, a proper meal, and perhaps a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Or perhaps a glimpse of his wife.

The thought surprised him.

Their marriage had been arranged, a practical union forged between noble houses. They had spent only a brief time together before he departed, hardly enough to truly know one another. Yet during the long nights away, he had found his thoughts wandering back to the woman he had left behind.

Perhaps it was simply because she was his wife.

Nothing more.

After handing off his horse and dismissing the servants, Arthem made his way through the estate grounds. The afternoon sun bathed the gardens in warm gold, illuminating rows of blooming flowers and neatly trimmed hedges.

That was when he spotted her.

She sat alone inside the pavilion overlooking the pond, elegant and composed as ever. A porcelain teacup rested between her fingers while a gentle breeze stirred the fabric of her dress.

For a brief moment, Arthem simply watched.

She seemed comfortable here.

At home.

The sight eased some of the tension in his shoulders.

Then he heard voices.

A pair of maids stood nearby, unaware of his presence as they hovered by the flower beds.

"Do you think Madam is expecting?"

The other maid lowered her voice.

"I've been wondering the same thing."

Arthem stopped walking.

"What makes you think so?"

"Well, haven't you noticed? She's been sleeping more than usual lately."

"That's true..."

"And she hasn't touched some of her favorite foods. The kitchen staff said she's been feeling nauseous in the mornings."

The maid giggles as excitement filled her voice. "Now that you mention it, Miriam said Madam has been requesting sour fruits almost every day."

The second maid gasped. "Those are signs, aren't they?"

"Exactly! My older sister was the same way during her pregnancy."

Arthem's gaze slowly shifted back toward the pavilion.

Pregnant? The word lodged itself firmly in his mind.

His wife remained seated peacefully, lifting her teacup to her lips while completely unaware of the conversation unfolding behind her.

Pregnant. His child?

A frown formed on his face.

No. That couldn't be right.

He mentally counted the time.

He had been gone for two months.

They had spent only a single night together.

A single night.

Could a child truly come from that?

His knowledge on the matter was embarrassingly limited. Military campaigns, governance, swordsmanship, diplomacy—those were subjects he understood. He had never paid attention to such topics, leaving them to physicians and women.

Yet uncertainty quickly gave way to suspicion.

The timing felt wrong. Too convenient. Too impossible.

Yet the maids sounded remarkably convinced.

Sleeping more. Morning sickness. Cravings.

The more he listened, the more suspicious the situation became.

His eyes narrowed.

Had something happened while he was gone?

The thought appeared suddenly and immediately soured his mood.

He disliked how quickly his mind went there. Disliked even more that he couldn't dismiss it.

Their marriage was still new. They barely knew each other. Trust was difficult to build when most of their relationship had consisted of formal greetings and shared obligations.

Arthem released a slow breath.

He should ask. Directly.

No assumptions. No rumors. No foolish conclusions.

That was the rational approach.

Unfortunately, reason was losing ground to irritation with every passing second.

Straightening his coat, Arthem stepped onto the pavilion pathway.

The maids immediately noticed him and nearly dropped everything in shock.

He ignored them.

His attention remained fixed on the woman seated inside.

By the time he reached the pavilion, his exhaustion had been completely replaced by something far more dangerous.

Arthem stopped before her table. For several long moments, he said nothing.

Then his gaze lowered briefly to her stomach before returning to her face.

His voice emerged calm and controlled. Far calmer than he actually felt.

"I leave for two months," he said, "and the first thing I hear upon returning is that my wife may be pregnant."

The silence that followed felt heavier than stone.

Arthem folded his arms across his chest. "Wife. You couldn't possibly having an affair with my brother, right?"

Arthem rarely drank alone.

Yet tonight, a half-filled glass of red wine rested in his hand as he sat beside the fireplace of his private chambers. The flames cast flickering shadows across the room, bathing everything in warm amber light.

The estate had long since fallen quiet.

Most servants had retired for the night. The halls beyond his door stood silent save for the occasional distant footstep.

And still, Arthem waited.

His earlier conversation with his wife lingered stubbornly in his mind.

No affair and no pregnancy.

The rumors had been nothing more than speculation from overly curious maids.

A misunderstanding.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, it had only left him feeling strangely restless.

He swirled the wine in his glass and stared into the dark crimson liquid.

For two months, he had been away.

Two months of sleeping in military camps, managing reports, and enduring tedious political meetings. Two months of focusing on everything except his personal life.

Then he had returned.

And for the first time since their marriage, he found himself truly looking at his wife.

Not as a political arrangement nor a name attached to a marriage contract.

But as a woman.

The realization irritated him.

It should not matter.

Their union had always been practical. Necessary. Nothing more than that.

Yet every time he recalled seeing her in the pavilion that afternoon, sipping tea beneath the sunlight, he found himself lingering on the memory far longer than he should.

His jaw tightened.

The mere thought of another man touching what was his had ignited something unpleasant inside his chest.

Something possessive and irrational.

Arthem took a slow sip of wine.

The taste barely registered.

His gaze drifted toward the bedroom door.

Still closed.

He wasn't accustomed to waiting for anyone.

People usually waited for him.

Yet tonight he found himself listening for approaching footsteps.

Waiting.

The realization irritated him.

He finished the wine and poured another glass. Then another.

But not enough to cloud his mind. Just enough to dull the edge of his thoughts.

The fire crackled softly as minutes passed.

Eventually, the sound he had been listening for finally arrived.

Footsteps. Slow and familiar.

Arthem straightened slightly in his chair.

The door opened. His eyes immediately lifted to her. For a brief moment, neither of them moved. And the room suddenly felt smaller than before.

Warmer.

The tension that had lingered between them all evening returned instantly, settling heavily in the space between them.

Arthem studied her in silence.

The candlelight softened the edges of her figure, casting warm shadows across the room. After two months away, the sight of her felt strangely unfamiliar and painfully familiar at the same time.

His jaw tightened.

He couldn't decide whether he was annoyed, relieved, or simply exhausted.

Perhaps all three.

Setting his glass down, he reached for the bottle.

Without breaking eye contact, he poured a second glass. The sound of wine filling crystal echoed quietly through the room.

Only then did he finally speak. His voice emerged low and calm.

"Come."

Arthem lifted the newly filled glass. The corner of his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Have a drink with me."

The invitation sounded simple enough. Yet neither of them could ignore the tension hidden beneath it.

"It's nice to have a drink first before doing it. Or would you prefer we get down to it?"

Tonight, neither sleep nor distance would spare them from the conversation waiting to happen.

The study was quiet.

Too quiet.

Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, painting long golden streaks across the polished floor and towering bookshelves. The afternoon should have felt peaceful. Instead, the room seemed suffocating.

Arthem stood near his desk, one hand resting against the carved wood.

Across from him, his wife sat on the couch.

The distance between them was barely a few feet.

It felt immeasurable.

The confession still echoed in his mind.

Not physical. Nothing physical had happened.

No secret meetings in hidden chambers. No stolen kisses. No nights spent together.

And yet—somehow that knowledge failed to comfort him.

Arthem had spent years believing that emotions were easier to control than actions. Actions could be excused by circumstance, temptation, weakness.

Feelings were different.

The thought made his jaw tighten.

His younger brother. Of all people.

A bitter laugh almost escaped him.

If someone had told him this morning that he would return from his expedition only to learn that his wife harbored feelings for his brother, he would have dismissed the idea as absurd.

Now he wasn't laughing.

The silence stretched between them. Arthem stared toward the bookshelf rather than directly at her. He was afraid of what he might reveal if he looked too long.

Anger mixed with frustration. And something uglier beneath both.

Jealousy.

The realization disgusted him.

Why should he be jealous? This marriage was arranged. Neither of them had chosen it.

They were strangers bound together by family interests and noble obligations.

He had accepted that reality from the beginning.

So why did it feel like someone had reached inside his chest and twisted something vital?

His fingers curled against the edge of the desk.

His brother had always been the easier one to approach.

The charming one. The sociable one.

People naturally gravitated toward him.

Arthem had long ago accepted standing in his shadow when it came to affection.

Respect was easy enough to earn. Duty was easier to fulfill.

Being loved was another matter entirely.

His gaze finally shifted toward the couch.

Toward her.

For a brief moment, he found himself wondering when it had happened.

Had she seek his brother while Arthem was away? Had she leaned on him and smiled for him?

The questions burned more than they should have.

Because none of it should matter.

They had barely been married for two months.

Two months.

Most of which he had spent away from home.

And yet the thought of simply walking away left an unpleasant hollowness in his chest.

The feeling made no sense for him.

Arthem exhaled slowly. He forced himself to step away from the desk.

Reason. He needed reason.

Not pride. Not jealousy. Not whatever this was.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. "If this is what you truly want..." The words felt heavier than expected.

His eyes lowered briefly before returning to her.

"Then perhaps divorce is the logical solution." Even saying it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The room grew still once more.

Arthem folded his arms across his chest. "But not now." His gaze hardened slightly.

"A divorce after only two months of marriage would become the scandal of the season."

Every noble house would talk about it and would use it to their advantage.

Their families would become the subject of endless rumors and speculation.

At least that was the excuse he offered aloud.

The practical explanation and sensible one.

Not the real reason.

He looked away toward the window. The afternoon sunlight was beginning to fade.

"I propose we wait one year."

One year. A reasonable compromise.

Long enough for public scrutiny to lessen.

Long enough for reputations to survive.

Long enough...

His chest tightened.

Long enough for something to change.

Arthem hated that thought.

Hated how desperately he wanted it.

Because despite everything he had heard today, despite the confession, despite the humiliation clawing at his pride, one undeniable truth remained.

He didn't want to let her go.

Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

But that was not something he intended to admit.

So instead, he remained standing there in the fading sunlight, his expression composed and unreadable.

Waiting for her answer while pretending the outcome didn't matter.

Pretending that a year was merely a practical arrangement. And that his heart wasn't already hoping for far more.

Arthem had faced enemy commanders, stubborn nobles, and even an emperor with unreasonable demands.

None of them were as terrifying as his pregnant wife refusing to acknowledge his existence.

Three days.

It had been three days since he had learned the truth.

Three days since the physician had confirmed that she was, in fact, carrying his child.

Three days since Arthem realized he had accused his innocent wife of infidelity less than an hour after returning home.

And three days since she had effectively erased him from her life.

Whenever he entered a room, she left.

Whenever he attempted to speak, she suddenly found something else more interesting.

She even stayed in the guest room as she not wanting to share a bed with him.

Meals became exercises in silence.

The servants had started avoiding eye contact whenever he appeared.

Even the maids looked disappointed in him.

Which was honestly insulting.

He was the lord of this estate. Well, not technically, since his father still alive. But still—he is a respected nobleman!

And somehow he had become the villain in his own household.

Arthem rubbed his temples as he sat in his study.

This was unbearable.

With a frustrated sigh, he rose from his chair and headed toward the one person he never imagined asking for relationship advice.

His younger brother.

Cyrus.

He found him lounging on a sofa at the library, reading a novel with all the seriousness of someone who had never worked a day in his life.

Cyrus glanced up. One look at Arthem's face and he immediately grinned. "Oh, this should be entertaining."

Arthem already regretted coming. "She's still angry."

Cyrus burst out laughing. "Of course she is."

"It has been three days."

"And?"

"I apologized."

"How?"

Arthem frowned. "I said I was sorry."

Cyrus stared at him. "That was it?"

"What more was I supposed to say?"

The look Cyrus gave him was so disappointed it felt offensive. "You accused your pregnant wife of cheating on you. With me."

Arthem grimaced. Hearing it phrased like that somehow sounded worse. "Then what would you suggest?"

Cyrus immediately sat up. The grin on his face should have been warning enough. "Oh, I have an idea."

Arthem narrowed his eyes.

The grin widened.

"No." He sighed.

"You haven't even heard it."

"I already dislike it."

"You came here for advice."

Arthem regretted that too.

Cyrus leaned forward, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

By the time his brother finished explaining, Arthem was convinced it was the stupidest idea he had ever heard.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Completely undignified.

There was no chance he would ever agree to something so absurd.

None whatsoever.

---

Several hours later, however, he found himself standing in the estate gardens while servants arranged hundreds of flowers beneath his wife's bedroom balcony.

The hypocrisy was not lost on him.

If someone had suggested this a week ago, he would have strangled them.

Now he was personally supervising the placement of rose bushes.

Life was indeed cruel.

By sunset, the entire household probably knew. And neighboring estates might know as well by tomorrow.

Arthem had accepted his dignity was already dead.

The flowers formed an elaborate display beneath the balcony.

White roses. Pink roses. Even a few golden blossoms imported from overseas.

An absurd amount of flowers. Exactly as Cyrus had suggested.

Which meant the worst part remained.

The poetry.

Arthem unfolded the paper his brother had provided.

His expression darkened immediately.

The poem was ridiculous.

Flowery. Overly dramatic. Entirely unlike anything he would ever say.

Which was precisely why Cyrus had insisted upon it.

Apparently sincerity was easier to believe when accompanied by public humiliation.

The logic remained questionable.

A servant cleared his throat. "My lord."

Arthem looked up.

The curtains above shifted. The balcony doors opened. And finally, his wife had appeared.

The evening breeze stirred her hair as she stepped outside.

For several moments, she simply stared.

First at the flowers.

Then at the gathering of curious servants desperately hiding and pretending not to watch.

Finally, her gaze settled on him.

Arthem suddenly understood fear. Battlefields were simpler. At least enemy soldiers usually announced their intentions.

Pregnant wives were far more dangerous.

Still—he had come this far. Retreat was impossible.

Arthem straightened his shoulders. Their eyes met. Then Arthem unfolded the paper.

Arthem took a steady breath. Then he began. His voice carried clearly through the evening air.

"My heart is a wandering traveler..." He paused. The wording felt increasingly absurd. "...yet every road leads back to you."

Arthem continued. "The stars may cross distant skies, and rivers may seek the endless sea, but nowhere in this world shall I find a place more precious than where you stand."

The poem grew worse. Considerably worse.

Yet he forced himself onward.

Because beneath every exaggerated line and embarrassing metaphor, there was an uncomfortable truth.

He was sorry. Genuinely, for hurting her.

The realization had taken three miserable days to understand.

Arthem lowered the paper. For the first time since beginning, he stopped reciting.

The rehearsed words suddenly seemed unnecessary.

Instead, he simply looked up at her. Really looked at the woman standing above him.

Arthem held her gaze. Then, abandoning the poem entirely, he spoke with complete honesty.

The words were simpler. Far less elegant. And infinitely more sincere.

"I was wrong. I should have trusted you. I let my insecurity influence my judgment."

His hand tightened around the ruined poem. "And I hurt you because of it."

The confession felt strangely freeing. He continued before he could reconsider.

"You have every reason to be angry." Another pause. Then, more quietly. "But I would like the opportunity to earn your forgiveness."

The evening breeze carried the confession upward. Arthem did not look away.

Not this time. No matter how terrifying her response might be.