Elizabeth awoke to the sound of Darcys cold, detached voice. "Finally, youve decided to rise?" he mocked, his tone laced with disdain.
"Apologies," she muttered, her voice hoarse from the emotional turmoil of the previous night. "What time is it?"
"Nine oclock," Darcy replied, his words sharp as knives. "I trust you slept well, despite the circumstances."
Elizabeth quickly shook off her grogginess, the urgency of her daily routine snapping her back to reality. Nine oclock meant she was already late for her usual 8:30 arrival at Darcy & Sons.
Thankfully, the motorhome was equipped with several of her professional outfits. Elizabeth dressed quickly, slipping into a tailored skirt suit that mirrored her no-nonsense attitude, and assessed herself in the mirror. Her long, dark hair, usually pinned up in a severe bun, now fell loose around her shoulders, softening her appearance.
For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself the luxury of reminiscence, thinking back to when she last let her hair down, a time when she was still with Edward. He had always adored the feel of her silken tresses.
Lost in thought, she ran her fingers through her hair, considering whether a shorter style might suit her better, a change that could perhaps signal a fresh start.
"Tsk, tsk," Darcys voice intruded on her musings, his sarcasm grating on her nerves. "I never took you for one to primp before the mirror, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth bristled at his condescension. "I was merely contemplating a change," she retorted, swiftly twisting her hair back into its customary chignon. "Theres no need for your commentary."
Darcys eyes narrowed, his gaze traveling over her reflection in the mirror. "Is it Edwards return thats prompting this sudden desire for change?"
His question was a barb, aimed to unsettle her. Elizabeth felt a pang in her chest at the mention of Edwards name, but she refused to let Darcy see her discomfort.
"A woman can change her hairstyle without it being a matter of concern for her husband," she replied coolly, her fingers deftly securing the last few strands of hair.
Darcys lips twisted into a smirk. "Ah, but you forget, Elizabeth. I am not just any husband. I am the one who is forced to endure your... quirks."
His words stung, but Elizabeth maintained her composure. "Then I suggest we both find ways to endure," she said, her voice steady. "I need to take my contraceptive and then Im off to the office."
The mention of contraceptives seemed to enrage Darcy further. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening as he fought to control his anger.
"Still taking those, are you?" he bit out. "Do you not wish to bear my child, Elizabeth?"
"I have neither the desire nor the inclination," she replied, her tone as cold as his. "Your numerous dalliances are more than enough to secure your legacy. I have the company to consider."
Darcys eyes flashed with anger, but he quickly masked it, his face returning to its usual impassive state. "As you wish," he said with a shrug. "Just do not come crying to me when you change your mind."
With that, he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving Elizabeth to her thoughts.
Alone once more, Elizabeth sighed, her reflection in the mirror a stark reminder of the life she led. She had become a stranger to herself, a woman trapped in a gilded cage, with all the appearances of luxury but none of the joy.
As she made her way to the office, her mind was not on the days tasks but on the man who haunted her thoughts. Edward Cullen was a ghost from her past, a love she had forsaken for the sake of her familys ambitions. But now, with his return imminent, she found herself questioning the choices she had made.
The day passed in a blur of meetings and negotiations, Elizabeths mind only half-present. The whispers of the staff, their speculations about her marriage to Darcy, reached her ears, but she paid them no mind. She was the vice president of Darcy & Sons, and she would not let gossip distract her from her duties.
But as the evening approached, she found herself dreading the return home, to the empty house that was more a mausoleum than a home. The motorhome, once a symbol of her freedom, had become a prison on wheels, transporting her to a life she no longer recognized as her own.