Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 51: To Move Away

When Catherine stepped back, traces of her tears still lingered on her lashes...

But Maximilian felt nothing.

No pain.

No echo of her emotions.

Nothing at all.

The numbness settled into his chest like a grave.

And somehow, it was far worse than the agony he had endured moments ago.

She looked straight into his eyes.

The warmth that once lived there was gone. Her green gaze glinted coldly, distant, as though he were nothing more than a stranger she had finished dissecting.

And there was nothing he could do.

Catherine kept retreating.

Two meters.

Five meters.

Ten meters—

She pushed the distance deliberately, slowly.

Yes, she had been dragged through an emotional storm. Yes, her heart had cracked open. But she had reached a decision.

She would not allow herself to be ruled by her heart ever again.

Maximilian... that liar... would never touch her emotions anymore.

She would not beg.

She would not interrogate.

She would not seek to understand him.

Instead, she would dig deeper... into the truths the bracelet demanded she uncover.

And this time...

She would survive.

This time, she would protect the people she loved.

She would not lose them again.

Now she understood the truth she had refused to face in her past life.

She had loved him.

And that love had been her downfall.

This time... she would not let her heart sway toward him.

Twelve meters.

She could stand twelve meters away from him.

Perfect.

She didn’t let her satisfaction show.

She had lived like this once... hollow, restrained, composed. And even if she no longer remembered how, she would learn again.

Slowly.

Methodically.

She would move farther and farther away from him.

"Catherine..." Maximilian called.

It felt as though something inside his chest had been severed... like a thread connecting his soul had been cut cleanly.

She turned back.

Smiling.

"Yes?" she asked lightly.

"Uh—nothing..." Maximilian looked away.

This was worse.

So much worse.

"I’ll draft a few rules for our temporary cohabitation, Professor Whitmore," Catherine said calmly as she opened her laptop. "I hope you’ll cooperate."

Maximilian swallowed.

She didn’t wait for a reply.

Her fingers were already moving across the keyboard.

He retreated silently into the kitchen.

The ache in his chest felt eerily familiar.

The same pain as the day he had pressed his seal into wax... The day he had borne false witness against her.

I’m sorry, Katerina...

I’m so, so sorry...

His phone chimed.

An email—sent to his official work address, not his personal one. From Catherine’s official email.

Subject: Catherine’s Rules for Temporary Cohabitation.

Maximilian opened it.

Clauses. Bullet points. Clean, precise language stripped of all warmth. Distance codified into text. Boundaries reduced to numbered rules.

He skimmed once. Then again.

His hand rose to his chest unconsciously, fingers pressing where it ached... not the sharp agony of the curse, but something duller. Colder. Worse.

She wouldn’t even speak to him directly.

"Can I get your number?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Catherine let out a slow breath. She considered him for a moment, then nodded. She could always block him if he crossed the line.

They exchanged numbers. Efficient. Emotionless.

"I’ll take this bedroom," Catherine said, pointing to the second bedroom—the one that had remained locked since the day she arrived.

"No!" The word tore out of him before he could stop it. Too loud. Too fast.

She turned, brows knitting. "Why?"

For a heartbeat, she looked almost wary, as if bracing for him to demand shared space.

"It’s... unavailable," he said quickly. "It’s occupied."

"Occupied?" Her gaze sharpened. "By what?"

"My... hobby room."

She studied him, then tilted her head, lips curving faintly. "I assume it doesn’t contain anything as deranged as furniture made of women."

A scoff. Sharp. Defensive.

Maximilian blinked, startled... and laughed. Or tried to. The sound came out thin. Awkward. He told himself she was joking. Trying to ease the tension.

She wasn’t.

Without another word, Catherine turned to the living room and began pushing the couch aside.

"Do forgive me for taking liberties," she said coolly. "Comfort matters to me. And couches do not qualify. I’ll handle the bed."

"Catherine—" He wanted to stop her. To tell her to take the bedroom. To say anything.

But the words lodged in his throat as she moved with decisive efficiency.

Within an hour, the bed arrived. Along with a wooden divider—tastefully chosen, matching his interiors with unsettling precision. By nightfall, she had carved out a bedroom of her own in his living room.

A wall between them. Literal and absolute.

Without prompting, his phone chimed again.

A money transfer notification.

For accommodations, her text read.

She didn’t eat what he cooked. She prepared her meals separately. Cleaned her own dishes. Left no trace of herself beyond the quiet assertion of independence.

Maximilian stood in the kitchen, the smell of untouched food lingering in the air, his chest burning as though he were standing barefoot on embers.

And the worst part...

He couldn’t even shout.

Because everything she did was reasonable.

Measured.

Civil.

And infinitely cruel.

-----

In the early morning light, Alexander sat cross-legged in front of the party head’s desk, far too relaxed for the gravity of the situation.

Across from him, the Senate Majority Leader, Senator Harold Whitcombe, sat rigidly. His hands were clasped in front of his chest in an instinctively defensive posture.

"I’ve already told you," Whitcombe said, forcing calm into his voice. "I’ll handle this. I’ll speak to the relevant senator—"

"You haven’t spoken yet," Alexander interrupted.

He rose smoothly to his feet and buttoned his suit jacket, the soft click of the button sounding far louder than it should have. Alexander’s jaw tightened, not at the senator, but at the fact that this had ever gotten terrible enough to have ruffled William at all.

Whitcombe looked up.

Alexander loomed over him—tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly composed. For the first time that morning, Whitcombe felt a flicker of unease crawl up his spine. He scratched absently at his shiny bald head.

"It’ll be resolved by the end of the day," Whitcombe insisted. "I give you my word."

Alexander didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t scowl.

He chuckled.

"A lot can happen," he said lightly, "in six hours."

Whitcombe swallowed. "So what if a few trucks aren’t moving?" he pressed, trying to regain ground. "It’s not like Laurel Creek is going bankrupt in a day. Senator Hauser is a friend—I need to handle this delicately. And frankly, I thought you’d moved on from that whole ranch life."

He attempted a laugh.

Alexander’s smile widened, but never reached his eyes.

"What can I say?" he replied mildly. "You can take the boy out of the ranch... but you can’t take the ranch out of the boy."

Then he turned his phone around and placed it on the desk.

Whitcombe’s face drained of color.

The room fell silent.