By the fourth week of our marriage, the quiet between Richard and me had started to shape itself into something else.
Not love. Not quite friendship either.
But a shared stillness. A mutual survival.
It was almost comforting.
Almost.
I returned home early one evening to find the estate unusually silent. Even Mira wasn't in sight. I stepped into the main corridor and heard faint murmurs coming from Richard's study.
Curiosity tugged at me.
I moved toward the door just as it creaked open.
A man I didn't recognize stepped out—gray suit, watchful eyes. He glanced at me briefly, nodded, and disappeared.
Inside, Richard was seated at his desk, head bowed over something I couldn't see.
"You're back early," he said without lifting his head.
"Should I come back?"
"No. Sit."
I did.
He handed me a document. "Read this."
I scanned it.
It was a proposal.
No—an ultimatum.
A clause in the company charter. A board demand. An issue of bloodline succession.
They wanted Richard to ensure a 'lineage'—or risk losing controlling shares in his family-owned company.
My heart stuttered.
"You knew about this?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
He leaned back, the light catching the edges of his expressionless face.
"I'd hoped it wouldn't be enforced."
"And now?"
"Now it is."
The implications sat between us like a weight neither of us knew how to carry.
He didn't say anything sentimental. He didn't touch me. But his eyes held something—
A conflict. A decision he hadn't made yet.
"We don't owe them anything," I said quietly.
"I know," he replied.
"But if we don't give them what they want, they'll try to take everything."
"I know that too."
For days, we didn't speak about it again.
But something shifted.
At breakfast, his eyes lingered on me longer. At work, his messages included words like "appreciate" and "well done." Not affection. Not even closeness.
Just… awareness.
I began to feel like a person again, not a pawn.
And then the dreams started.
I'd wake up in the early hours of the morning, chest tight, throat dry, echoes of footsteps in my ears. Sometimes I dreamt of my childhood—my aunt shouting in the background, hands scrubbing dishes while I sat doing homework on the floor.
Other nights, I dreamed of nothing.
Just silence.
And when I'd wake, I'd find the light from the hallway still on—soft and steady under my door.
Once, I opened the door.
Richard stood in the hallway, dressed, phone in hand.
He didn't look surprised.
"Couldn't sleep?" I asked.
"Didn't try."
I didn't know what made me do it. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe need.
But I stepped toward him, paused just inches away.
"We don't have to pretend we're okay with all this," I whispered.
He didn't move. Didn't reach for me.
But he said, quietly, "I don't pretend."
Three days later, I returned home to find my aunt sitting in the living room of the estate.
A cup of tea in her hand. Mira watching her like she might knock over a priceless vase.
I froze.
"Auntie?" I asked.
She looked up. "So this is where you live now."
"How did you—?"
She gestured to her phone. "I googled him. Everyone knows who he is. You should've told me earlier. I could've used a reference for rent."
Mira stiffened.
I led my aunt to a private sitting area and closed the door.
"What do you want?"
Her expression changed slightly. "I need help with some medical bills."
I stared at her. "You didn't ask how I am. How my job is. What this marriage is like."
She rolled her eyes. "You've always been dramatic."
"No," I said, the words sharp. "I've always been invisible to you until you needed something."
She stood then, offended. "I raised you."
"You fed me. Housed me. But you never once asked me what I wanted. Who I was."
Silence.
Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she turned toward the door.
"Fine. Stay here in your palace. But don't expect me to beg."
She left.
And for the first time in years, I didn't feel guilt.
I felt relief.
That night, Richard returned late.
He saw my expression and paused.
"Someone came," he said simply.
I nodded. "She's gone."
He didn't ask for details. He didn't offer comfort.
He simply placed his hand onthe back of my shoulder as he passed, the briefest touch.
And somehow—it was enough.