The Billionaire Who Married Me In Silence

CHAPTER 5: SLEEPING BESIDE A STRANGER

**Lina's POV**

"Which agreement?" I can't stop myself before the words leave my mouth. I shout out to him halfway down the corridor.

With his phone still in his hand and a cautiously blank demeanour, he turns slowly. "What did you just say?" he queries. With my pulse blaring in my ears, I approach him.

"What happens if the contract expires?" Something flickers across his face for a flash, just a brief moment. Not with rage. Not bewilderment. Alert.

"Who did you hear that from?" His voice falls, tense but controlled. Thus, a contract exists. He lets out a sniff. "Come back to me." "A message has arrived," I say. “From an unidentified number.”

He hardens his jaw. “Show me.” After a moment, I gave him my phone. He looks down at the screen. His forearm muscles tighten slightly as he holds it.

Do you have a response? he asks. “No”. “Very good.” Unasked, he removes the messages. "Hi—" He retorts,

"You don't react to unknown numbers." “Asking questions about stuff you don't comprehend is not appropriate.” "But I am married to you." "It's an agreement," he clarifies.

The word cuts more deeply than is necessary. "Then explain it to me," I insist. He observes me for a considerable amount of time, as if he is assessing my right to know.

"There is a time frame," he concludes. "That's about it." “How much time?” "For long enough." "That isn't a solution." "That is the only one you will receive."

It feels cooler in the hallway now. The quiet is more oppressive. "You mentioned control," I mumble. "What happens when you no longer require it?" He focuses his attention.

"Why are you concerned about that?" since I am unsure of my destination. Since I already feel like I'm relying on other people for support.

But that's not what I say. I whisper, "It matters because I'm the one sleeping in this house too." A change occurs in his expression. Not soft. Quite not.

Then, he continues, "let's clarify something." “You remain. You obey the guidelines. At the conclusion of this arrangement, you have gained more. stable financially. No cost. But free? ""Free?” I repeat. "It is.”

“And you?” I inquired "I stay just the same." Like a sealed door between us is the answer. There was no return to my room that night. I stand outside his living room and wait.

He stops when he sees me when he goes outside an hour later. "What are you doing?" he queries. "Considering." "Try to sleep." "I don't wish to."

His expression briefly changes to one of frustration. "There's no game here." “I understand.” I get up. This is the reason I don't want separate bedrooms. His eyebrows furrow. "Huh?"

"This marriage must appear to be one in private as well if it is one in public," I firmly state. Workers converse. They pick up on things. "They do not converse."

"They do," I mumble. "Just out of earshot." He pays close attention to me. He says, "You want to share a room," slowly. “Why?”

Because I'm sick of feeling like my bags are kept all the way down the hall. Because the distance between us seems to be louder than any disagreement.”

The reason I say that is because I don't want to feel like a guest. Those words dangle there. He looks at me longer than he usually does. Then he moves aside and opens his door without saying anything.

My room is not as dark as this one. fewer ornaments. cooler and cleaner. I enter the room. Behind me, he shuts the door. "Are you sure?" he says.

My head nods. Then, he says, "Then comprehend this." "It doesn't change." I gulp. "I realise." Taking off his watch, he sets it down on the nightstand.

I wasn't prepared for the small, precise movements to feel so personal. He unbuttons his handcuffs while I sit on the edge of the bed.

Without turning to face me, he replies, "You don't have to stay up."

"I don't." But I'm. He vanishes into the lavatory. The sound of water flowing is audible.

The soft hum of a person removing the fatigue of a long day. When he emerges, his hair is wet. Somehow, he appears younger. Not as sharp.

He sees me still sitting there and pauses. "You're staring again," he whispers. I apologise. He steps forward. His eyes are so close that I have to raise my head to look into them.

"You complicate things," he says. “For you?” I enquire. "It is." “Why?” He hesitates. "Because you give me the impression that I'm sweeter than I actually am."

The admission affects me more than I anticipated. "Perhaps you aren't," I said quietly. He raises—then lowers his hand. He whispers, "Don't do that."

“Why?” You won't like what you find, that's why. After turning to my side of the bed, I lie down first.

He slides in next to me after turning out the lamp. Under his weight, there is a tiny dip in the mattress. We're not in contact. I can sense him, though.

Each breath. each change. We are separated by a charged space. A few hours go by. He nods off fast. Not me. His breathing rhythm catches my attention as I gaze into the darkness. An outsider. my spouse.

Somewhere in the night I turn a bit. His arm brushes mine. He does not move. I relaxed my fingers on his hand, feeling encouraged. warm. solid. Indeed.

I briefly gave myself permission to think this was something more. Then he abruptly moves away. Half-asleep, he murmurs, "Do not." The term is more painful than it ought to be.

Before dawn, I return to my side of the bed and gaze at the ceiling. Days go by in this manner. He is tardy. Take off early. From the pillow next to me, I occasionally wake up to the subtle aroma of his cologne.

He's dressed and tying his tie in the mirror when I wake up. I tell him one morning, “you don't get much sleep.” "I do go to bed soon enough."

"That isn't accurate." My eyes meet his in the mirror. "Are you observing me now?" "I can't stop myself." He softens his eyes a little. "Don't get attached," he reiterates.

I raise my head. "That sounds like something you're trying to convince yourself of." He stops mid-knot. He says, "Be careful." "What with?" "With exertion."

"Don't push," I answer. "I just came here." The space becomes quiet. He heads toward the entrance after tying his tie. He stops before he goes.

"Dinner tonight," he declares. “In the house.” "With you?" I enquire. "It is." It's a little victory to hear the word. Late that night, I waited. It's eight. Nine. Ten.

He doesn't arrive. The food on the table gets chilly. With wax dripping over the sides like a silent surrender, the candles burn lower.

The sound of the clock ticking is too loud. It feels like each minute is chosen rather than unplanned, purposeful, and intentional. Two times, I looked at my phone.

Every three times. Nothin'. It starts to seem intimate in the silence. My phone is vibrating. Unidentified number. It tightens in my chest. The message opened for me.

Is it true that you are the only person sharing that bed with him? I start to gasp. A second message appears instantly. Inspect the drawer on his bedside.

It’s too quiet in the house. Too sedentary. Slowly, I make my way back to the bedroom. He hasn't returned home yet.

The drawer remains in place. Closed. Waiting. I linger my fingertips on the handle.

I shouldn't. I do, however. I take it open— My heart halts.