Behind Closed Doors of Desire

Chapter 1

Evelyn Cromwell met her husband, Valerius Cromwell, for the first time when their son was nine years old. By then, Valerius had nearly forgotten that he had a daughter.

When Evelyn was born, Valerius had been away with the military. By the time he made it back home, the infant had already been given away. He didn't care whether she was a boy or a girl; for him, having children didn't hold any significance. He was emotionally detached from everything, as if he were just going through the motions of life.

His wife, Isabella Fairchild, was quite the opposite. She was deeply concerned about their child. Immediately after giving birth, she sent the baby off with relatives, eager to gain the approval of Valerius's family. However, their situation didn’t comply with the military’s regulations regarding family size, so the arrangement was made quickly. Isabella longed for a son, hoping to quickly become pregnant again.

It took until their third year of marriage for her to conceive once more, but tragically she lost the baby due to her weakened condition, which left her devastated. She gradually reached a point of despair, even losing clumps of hair due to stress. Valerius stayed with her for just two days before being summoned back to the service. His career was on the rise, and every assignment was an opportunity—one he couldn't afford to lose.

Back at home, the pressure mounted. The family, both openly and subtly, encouraged a growing family. Isabella faced constant scorn from her sisters-in-law, who labeled her a barren hen. She was in agony, taking all sorts of supplements to enhance her chances of conceiving. Unfortunately, she was swamped with work that left little room for personal care. An astute and remarkably beautiful woman, she had climbed her way up from a remote mountain village to the city, and later to Valerius’s side, ready to do whatever it took to succeed.

Finally, in the sixth year of their marriage, Isabella became pregnant again. Three months in, she secretly took a test and discovered she was carrying a boy. By this time, Valerius's career had reached great heights. Overwhelmed with joy, Isabella found herself crying even in the middle of the night; everything else became secondary as she chose to focus solely on nurturing her pregnancy.

She indulged in countless nutritious foods, her belly growing rounder, but at eight months, she went into premature labor, and the baby was tiny—a fragile little boy. Thankfully, he was healthy; she finally got her wish, and it felt as though she could lift her head high in Valerius’s family, a sense of victory washing over her as her lips curled into a faint, self-satisfied smile.

No one in the family thought of Valerius anymore. To them, his absence was simply assumed even as Isabella focused every ounce of her energy on their new son, Cedric Cromwell.

When Cedric was nine, Isabella’s family called with concerns. Her parents were aging, struggling with the challenges of life in the isolated mountains. They insisted that Cedric deserved a better upbringing than what they could provide.

Cedric’s uncle delivered him to Cromwell Manor; a simple rural man, he couldn’t bear to stay longer than necessary. He hurriedly reassured Cedric that he would be fine, pressed some money into his hand, and quickly departed for the train.

Cedric stood there in shock, tears welling in his eyes as he clutched his uncle's sleeve, sobbing uncontrollably. “Uncle, no!” he cried in a mix of his native dialect, desperation lacing his words, his cries echoing through the unfamiliar halls of The Grand Hall, as if his heart were breaking in two.

Chapter 2

Valerius Cromwell initially threw a couple of tantrums, refusing to come out for dinner and hiding in his room, ignoring everyone who called for him. He even ran away once, slipping out when no one was paying attention. His wife was already frustrated with him and declared she wouldn’t deal with him anymore.

He contacted The Investigative Guild and enlisted some members of the King’s Guard to search for him. By then, Valerius had been missing for a whole day and had almost reached the freeway when he was finally found. He was so hungry that he couldn’t even bring himself to eat the two slices of bread he had stolen that morning.

Valerius had the wildness of a mountain child and resisted authority. He had a dislike for his little brother and often made Cedric Cromwell cry. He would even cover Cedric’s mouth to keep him from calling for help, which usually earned him a scolding from Isabella Fairchild, but he paid no attention to that.

He was an expert tree climber, racing up the trunks with effortless ease. From his lofty perch, he laughed exaggeratedly at the children below who stared up at him in astonishment. He was dark and lean, and from the car, he looked like a mischievous little monkey.

Valerius often bullied the other kids, whether they were from around the neighborhood or school. He had a knack for making them cry, yet somehow, a crowd of boys always followed him, ready to take the blame. Despite his young age, he commanded his little gang with the authority of a leader.

He was incredibly proud, only softening up when calling his relatives, switching to a sweet and high-pitched voice like a typical little girl. Due to a quirk in tradition, everyone referred to him as "Niao Niao." When he was brought to his relatives', they hadn’t given him a proper name at first. The family's daughter had gone missing, and in a fit of madness, she believed he was a reincarnation of her child, naming him Niao Niao, and that’s what stuck until he was four.

His name didn’t quite fit him, and no one at home called him that. Sometimes, he would pass by the living room and catch a glimpse of Valerius clutching the phone, peeking around nervously and talking into it. “I can’t wait for school to be over! I want to eat the dried bamboo shoots, yeah, from Uncle Gareth. Don’t let Cedric eat them!”

He would return to his relatives during the holidays, spending the entire break there without fail.

One day, as he walked past, he startled Valerius, causing him to flinch and quickly cover the phone, looking embarrassed and flustered. He was crimson-faced as he hurriedly whispered into the phone. He poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen, chuckling, "What are you scared of? Keep talking."

He knew that Valerius was afraid of him; after all, who wasn’t? He was cold, rigid, and stern, like a still pond—unruffled yet profoundly enigmatic. Everyone trembled at the thought of confronting him; meeting his gaze made them shudder.

When Valerius Cromwell spoke to him for the first time, he was taken aback.

She stood at the door, hesitating on what to say. Just as he grew impatient and began to sift through his paperwork, he heard her voice: “Dad.”

It was the first time Valerius had addressed him as “Dad.” “Yes. What is it?” he replied.

“I... I want to learn how to dance.” She summoned all her courage to stand by the door of his study, her body tense and her voice trembling.

“Sure thing.” He agreed without a second thought, not caring what style she wanted to learn or the reason behind it. He felt no reason to refuse her and was eager to finish the document in front of him.

Valerius let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, nearly jumping with excitement but still managing to respond politely, “Thank you.”

He simply replied, “No problem.”

Chapter 3

He looked up only to find the doorway empty. The sound of light footfalls echoed through the living room, filled with a sense of joy that reminded him of her. Suddenly, he smiled.

He was taken aback by how quickly Valerius Cromwell had grown up. Maturity sneaks up on you, like a moment when you glance up and realize she’s transformed into a stunning young woman. Her figure was delicate yet poised, walking with an upright grace, her chin slightly raised, radiating an air of confidence.

One morning, after returning from the King's Guard, he walked into his study and found someone in the room. Valerius Cromwell stood at his desk, her back to him, reaching for a book on the shelves. Her feet glided along the surface, soft and graceful, her legs moving like they were in a ballet. Bathed in the warm light of the morning, her legs appeared long and straight, her waist so slender it seemed delicate enough to break with a touch, rising and falling like a swan basking in the dawn, each moment beautiful and fragile.

She jumped down, landing barefoot on the floor. The sound of her feet hitting the ground was like a melodic rhythm, thumping against his heart. She stopped in front of him, tilting her head back to look up at him.

She was very slim, even more so since she had committed to ballet, but it was no longer the kind of thinness that suggested frailty. Instead, her youthful skin gave her a hint of softness, outlined like a silhouette; she was long and beautiful. With her fair complexion, she stood out in a crowd like a true city princess; the wildness that once colored her spirit had long since faded away.

From his perspective, he could see the way her eyes widened when she glared, the delicate curve of her nose, and as she leaned in, the gentle hairs on her cheek illuminated by the light, giving her a bold and spirited quality.

She furrowed her brows slightly, her full lips moving, glistening in the light as she said, “You old perv.”

A rush of surprise traveled through him, and he instinctively reached for her hand, but she dodged away in a flash. She dashed to her room with a sketchbook in hand, momentarily stumbling but recovering quickly. As she reached the doorway, she turned back to shoot him a teasing look, sticking out her tongue, “Hmph.”

He didn’t chase after her. In that instant, every fiber of his being felt like it had been rearranged. Even the smallest movement sent a dull ache across his body; he felt rigid and frozen. Yet his heart raced like a battering ram against the castle gates, pounding loudly as if it might burst through his chest. Blood rushed through his veins like wildfire, setting him on edge, his feet tingling with a strange energy.

This was the first time he felt such a powerful sensation, a thrilling, overwhelming heat, like standing in the midst of a fiery blaze.

Who had splashed vibrant paint in his eyes, transforming his once-gloomy view into a striking scene?

Chapter 4

In his memory, Valerius Cromwell was that little girl who once avoided his gaze, bold yet rare in her compliance to him. When did she start to notice the intense heat of his eyes, a gaze that felt unnaturally sticky?

He didn’t think his stare lingered on her any more than it should, yet he couldn’t ignore the strange shift inside him—like a sharp, pricking sensation that left him restless.

As he stepped inside the house, he heard Valerius Cromwell’s voice ring out, “Why does my allowance for a month not even add up to half of Cedric Cromwell’s?”

“That’s too much money for a girl your age. You’re just asking for trouble,” came the response.

“Trouble? Where’s the trouble? You never cared before! A kid with that much money is just asking for trouble!”

“What kind of trouble could a kid get into? You’re a girl—having cash just means you’ll get into mischief with the wrong crowd.”

“Are you serious, Isabella Fairchild? Do you even hear yourself?”

“Is this how you were raised? Calling your mother by her first name?”

“No one taught me,” Valerius Cromwell's voice was strained, quivering as she fought back tears, shaking all over before she flung the object in her hand aside and tried to rush past him.

He blocked the doorway. Valerius was already crying, but she pushed against him, trying to shove him away. “Let me go!”

Unmoved, he grasped her wrist, feeling how delicate and warm it was, and in that moment, he could sense the pulse beneath her skin. He turned to his wife, saying, “It doesn’t hurt to give her a bit more pocket money. Girls need to be spoiled; if you’re not willing, let her just come to me next time she needs something.”

His wife, taken aback by his willingness to mediate in this conflict, hesitated to argue but looked desperate to say something. She frowned, struggling with the words, “Evelyn Cromwell, giving her so much money won’t do her any good. Spoiling her isn’t help at all.”

“It’s not about being spoiled; it's about fairness. The child isn’t bad, and whether it's a lot of money or a little money shouldn’t matter,” he replied.

His wife's expression darkened, her tone filled with disbelief, “Evelyn, why are you suddenly concerned about something so trivial?”

“Why can’t I be? I’m a parent too,” he insisted.

She seemed unable to grasp his perspective again, starting to repeat, “Evelyn Cromwell…”

She had a habit of saying his name before confronting him, her voice soft and almost submissive, a tactic that only made her seem even closer to him.

“Don’t worry about it. Go get a few pieces of clothing, I’ll be spending a few days at the barracks.”

He had absolute authority; she dared not appose him, her footsteps hesitant as she retreated.

Valerius Cromwell turned away, her head held high as she twisted her wrist in an effort to break free from his grip. After a while with no success, she let out a frustrated sniffling sound.

She pounded her fists against his arm, fiercely whispering, “What are you doing? Just let me go!”

Her voice began to rise in intensity, leading into a desperate scream that faded into sobs. “What do you want from me?” like a child throwing a fit. “Everyone’s against me, what’s your problem, anyway?”

He heard her jaw quivering, struggling to disguise her emotional turmoil. She started to fight him again, repeatedly stomping her feet in her sandals as if each step was a protest.

Her wrist was turning red where he held on too tight. In her fury, she bit him on the back of his hand, sharp teeth breaking skin. She wasn’t just sharp with her words—her bites felt deliberate too.

He looked into Valerius Cromwell’s dark, glistening eyes, as if something was burning fiercely within them. The moment they locked eyes, she slowly released her bite while defiantly standing her ground in front of him.

Finally loosening his grip, he said, “Just go back inside! If you need money, come to me.”

Valerius tilted her head, fresh tears glistening in her eyes, cheeks flushed red as she bit her lip to restrain herself, “You’re the worst.”

Turning away, she stomped back to her room, each step heavy with childish rebellion. Her dance training kept her posture upright, exuding confidence that seemed mature for her age.

He glanced down at the deep bite marks on his hand, droplets of saliva still wet—an imprint like a needle injecting a foreign virus into his veins.

His heart raced, filled with uncontainable thoughts that sat uneasily in his mind. He raised his hand to his face, feeling the warmth on his skin; for a brief moment, he was enveloped in the sweet scent lingering from her lips.

He hadn’t quite stepped into the role of her father, yet he was already conjuring thoughts of being something far more intimate.

Chapter 5

Valerius Cromwell had an uncanny knack for getting under her skin, a presence that was both puzzling and inescapable.

At home, he had a routine: lounging on the couch, watching the news. Meanwhile, she would stroll in, a crisp apple in hand, and plop down beside him, her legs casually draping over his lap. Dressed in white ankle socks with frilly edges that concealed her ankles, her long, slender legs were bare before him, smooth and pale as if they glowed in the soft light.

Seemingly oblivious to the effect she had, she bit into her apple, the crunch cutting through the stilted cadence of the newscast, creating a jarring contrast. Yet, her presence captivated him far more than the televised reports.

He didn’t move, keeping his posture straight and his gaze fixed on the screen, pretending to be engrossed in the broadcast.

But then, the biting stopped. She leaned in, her nose brushing against his neck, taking a moment to breathe him in. With a playful lift, she raised her sock-clad foot, extending her leg towards him. “Don’t you think my legs are pretty?” She smiled at him, innocent yet mischievous, tilting her head slightly as she asked, “You like them, right?”

Her laughter rang out like that of a cheeky child, teasing him without remorse. He was at a loss for words, unsure how to respond to a question that didn’t need an answer. Just then, he heard someone at the door, the sound of keys jangling. Valerius quickly repositioned himself, awkwardly folding his legs while resuming his faux interest in the television.

His wife entered, holding the hand of their son, Cedric Cromwell, who was still quite small for his age, looking almost frail as he stood there. When he called out for his dad and sister, Valerius gave a lackluster response, tossing his apple core into the trash bin.

His wife entered the house, dropping her bag, before making her way to the kitchen with the housekeeper, discussing the evening's dinner.

Cedric bounced over to Valerius, still without his backpack, crouching down eagerly, his wide eyes staring up at her. He seemed nervous around Evelyn Cromwell. “Sis, Gareth the Scribe gave me this huge puzzle. He said it has many pieces. Can we work on it together?” He tugged at her leg. “Please, please.”

Valerius pointed at his forehead, urging him to back away. “Aren’t you two a bit much? It’s like you expect me to waste time on this when I have better things to do. Stop bothering me and go ask your mother.” He was irritable, pushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“C’mon, sis,” Cedric said, his voice almost a whimper, face scrunched up like a puppy. “I can’t finish it alone. Help me, please!”

Valerius leaned back, using his left arm to shield himself from Cedric. “Keep your distance, kid. Go on, get out of my way.”

He could feel his elbow nudging against Evelyn’s soft chest, caught between her curves. She glared at him, irritation evident in her voice. “Seriously, move.”

“Cedric, go do your homework,” she commanded. It felt like a thousand ants were crawling on his skin, a prickling sensation.

Whatever she said, he instinctively wanted to comply.

“Okay,” Cedric muttered, lowering his head as he walked away.

As Valerius dropped his arm away like a discarded plaything, he could hear her patting her backside as she got up and strolled away.

She had a habit of popping up behind him, sometimes nudging him playfully, or wrapping her arms around his waist only to dash off, giggling like a trickster.

Evelyn often took residence in his study, lounging on the couch with little regard for propriety, snacking and flipping through art books. They rarely exchanged words, each absorbed in their own worlds, the comfortable silence punctuated only by the rustling of pages or the crunch of chips.

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