Held in Silence

It had been days since the meadow.

And still, I thought about the way Richard looked at the stream—not at me, not at the trees, not at the sky. At the water, as though it could carry away something he hadn't said.

He had spoken so little, but it was what he didn't say that stayed with me.

Today started like most others.

I woke to the pale gray light of morning seeping in through the windows. My aunt's snores echoed faintly from the guest room, and somewhere down the hall, Mira was already moving. The scent of toasted bread drifted upward before I even left the bed.

But I didn't go down to breakfast.

Instead, I stood barefoot in front of the mirror, brushing my fingers across the delicate fabric of a navy-blue dress I hadn't worn since the wedding. It wasn't extravagant. Just elegant enough to feel unfamiliar. Just soft enough to make me remember what it felt like to dress for myself.

I wore it that day.

No occasion. No dinner to attend. No guests to impress.

I wore it because I wanted to feel something.

Because I wanted him to see me—not as an obligation. Not as a name on a document.

As me.

Richard noticed.

The moment I walked into the drawing room where he was reviewing a stack of reports, he paused.

His eyes flickered once. Up. Down.

Then stayed.

"Morning," I said quietly.

He took a beat longer than usual to respond. "You look... different."

"I felt like wearing something nice."

He closed the folder. "It suits you."

I didn't know what to do with the warmth that bloomed quietly beneath my ribs.

Later that day, Mira handed me a tablet with a guest list for an upcoming charity dinner. Richard's name was at the top, of course. And beside it, in gray script—Mrs. Calein.

"You'll be attending with him," Mira said. "I assume?"

I hesitated. "Has he said anything?"

"Not yet. But everyone will expect it."

I stared at the list for a moment longer.

Then nodded. "Yes. I'll be there."

He brought it up during dinner.

"You received the list?"

"I did."

"I understand it's not your kind of crowd."

"I'll manage."

He watched me for a moment. "You don't have to."

I set down my fork. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Give me a way out."

He didn't blink. "Because no one else has."

That silenced me.

And then, slowly, he added, "But I'd like you there."

I looked at him. Really looked.

And for once, I didn't doubt him.

"I'll come," I said. "But only if you promise not to let me get cornered by Mrs. Havers again."

That earned the softest curve of a smile. "Deal."

The night of the dinner arrived faster than expected.

I stood at the top of the stairs, my hand trembling ever so slightly as I adjusted the earring clasp. The dress was simple, black silk that clung to the right places, and I had borrowed a pair of shoes from Mira—sleek and painful.

Richard was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

When he looked up and saw me, he didn't speak right away.

His expression shifted just slightly—just enough for me to notice.

"You clean up well," I said.

"So do you," he replied. "Though I'm reconsidering taking you now."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because you'll be the only person anyone looks at."

My chest tightened.

And for once, I let the words land. Let myself believe them.

The car ride to the venue was quiet. But not empty.

His hand rested on the seat between us, fingers just slightly curled. I didn't touch it. Didn't dare.

But I stared at it longer than I should have.

When we arrived, flashbulbs burst like stars. Cameras, faces, noise. It was a storm of light and expectation.

But Richard reached for my hand before we stepped out.

And this time—I let him hold it.

He didn't let go all evening.

Introductions, speeches, meaningless chatter—I floated through it with him beside me. His presence was grounding. Unshakable. Every time someone tried to corner me in small talk, he redirected the conversation without missing a beat.

And when he wasn't speaking?

He was watching.

Not possessively.

Protectively.

Like I was something he hadn't known he was allowed to want.

Midway through the dinner, I excused myself to the powder room. My heels ached, and my smile had begun to splinter at the edges.

As I splashed cool water on my face, I caught my reflection and saw something strange.

I looked… calm.

Not the polished perfection of someone trying to perform.

Just a woman who had stopped trying to shrink.

When I returned to the table, Richard wasn't alone.

A woman stood beside him. Tall, poised, dressed in a silver gown that glittered even in the low light.

She leaned in too close.

Laughed too softly.

And then, her hand touched his shoulder.

It was nothing. A small gesture.

But something inside me flared.

I walked back slowly, carefully, as Richard looked up and met my gaze.

His eyes sharpened instantly.

He stepped back before the woman could touch him again, and turned fully toward me.

"There you are," he said.

And when I reached him, he placed a hand at the small of my back—deliberately.

Possessively.

I should have felt claimed.

Instead, I felt chosen.

That night, after the dinner, he didn't speak on the drive home.

Nor did I.

But when we reached the front door, I lingered.

He paused.

I turned toward him.

"Thank you," I said. "For tonight."

He nodded. "You were… stunning."

I swallowed. "You didn't look too bad yourself."

His eyes dipped to my lips.

And for a second—I thought he might kiss me.

I thought I might let him.

But he didn't.

And neither did I.

Instead, I stepped back, heart racing.

And whispered, "Goodnight, Richard."

He watched me walk away without a word.

But the air between us said everything.