Held in Silence

I didn't expect her to look like that.

When she came down the stairs that evening, in that black dress with her hair pinned up, something in my chest clenched — not in surprise, but in recognition.

She was no longer just the woman I had married out of necessity.

She was someone I noticed.

And that scared me more than anything.

In the car on the way to the gala, she was quiet, watching the city pass us by through the tinted glass. I pretended to read something on my phone. I don't know why — maybe I was afraid that if I looked at her too long, I'd forget how to look away.

She spoke only once, her voice soft. "You don't have to hold my hand if you don't want to."

I replied, "That isn't the point," before I had a chance to think about what I meant.

She didn't ask me to explain. She just nodded, like she was used to men who didn't finish their sentences.

At the gala, I did what I've always done — played the role.

The CEO. The Calein heir. The man who had everything.

People smiled at her, complimented her, whispered behind their glasses of wine about how she was beautiful — for someone like that. Whatever that meant.

I heard it all.

She didn't flinch. She never does. She was composed, polite. Smiling in all the right places. But I knew her well enough by now to know she was bracing herself, like a woman constantly waiting for the floor to give way.

And maybe that's what finally undid me.

Because when I placed my hand on her lower back — for the cameras, for appearances — it felt less like an act and more like the truth I wasn't ready to name.

Later, when we stood by the car outside the estate, and she looked up at me like she was asking for something without saying a word…

I almost did it.

I almost kissed her.

My hand was on her waist. Hers hovered near my collar. Her breath hitched. Mine did too.

But I didn't move.

Because if I kissed her — if I gave in — it wouldn't be pretend anymore.

It wouldn't be arranged or accidental or convenient.

It would be real.

And I wasn't ready for real.

Not when I didn't even know what it meant.

She turned away first. Not angrily. Not even sadly.

Just… quietly.

And that silence followed me back into the house like a punishment.

I sat in my study with a glass of something sharp and dark in my hand. I didn't drink it. Just held it, staring at the empty fireplace like it owed me an answer.

I didn't sleep that night.

I couldn't stop thinking about the way she looked when she closed the door behind her.

Like she had already decided to stop hoping for me.

The next morning, she wasn't at the breakfast table. I didn't ask the staff where she was. I told myself I didn't care.

Then I saw her in the garden.

Phone to her ear. Head bowed. Shoulders tight.

Her voice was soft, but I caught one word through the window.

Evan.

And something inside me went still.

She hung up quickly. She came back inside and pretended nothing had happened. I asked if everything was alright.

She told me, "Just someone from my past."

I wanted to ask why.

I wanted to know if he ever made her smile the way she used to smile before she married me.

But I just nodded.

Because pretending to be unaffected is something I'm better at than most.

I saw her again that afternoon, sitting in front of my mother's painting.

She didn't know it was hers. She didn't know what it meant.

I told her anyway.

"She liked it. Said it reminded her of me."

I don't know why I said it. I hadn't spoken about my mother in years. Not since she died. Not since my father married the woman who would make silence feel like survival.

But Lara didn't press me for more. She didn't recoil. She just sat there, looking at it like it made sense.

Like I made sense.

That terrified me more than anything.

When she stumbled near the sculpture and I caught her arm, my hand lingered.

Not because she was in danger.

Because I didn't want to let go.

She looked at me then. Really looked.

"Richard," she said.

And there it was again — that unspoken request.

I knew what she wanted. Not intimacy. Not affection. Just truth.

"I don't want this to be pretend anymore," she whispered.

God.

I wanted to say, Me neither.

I wanted to say, Then let's stop pretending.

But I stood there like a coward and said the safest thing I could: "I know. I don't either."

And then I let her go.

Because I still didn't trust myself with something real.

Not yet.

Not when the only love I'd ever seen growing up was conditional, cold, and quiet.

The night after, I wrote her a note.

Just a meeting update. Something she didn't really need.

But I flipped it over and wrote one more line.

You looked happier yesterday.

I don't know if I meant it as an accusation or a confession.

Maybe both.

Maybe I just wanted her to know I see her— even when I can't say what I feel.