CHAPTER 5 – SPEAKING WITHOUT WORDS
1440 Words
Liana had grown very fluent in silence.
Not the kind that came from peace but the kind that hung heavy, like a coat you couldn’t shrug off. She wore it now like a second skin, nailed into her spine and tailored to perfection.
Morning didn’t arrive with warmth or song. It slipped into Holt Manor like a secret, filtered through tall windows and gauzy curtains drawn back by hands that never knocked. Pale winter light spilled across the room. Liana opened her eyes slowly, the chill in the air greeting her before she could form any thought.
Her hand reached for the phone on her nightstand, almost by instinct. She unlocked it with a swipe. The screen blinked to life, completely blank. There were no missed calls, or messages. Not even from Mireille.
Nothing, just that old, familiar hush. Silence. Quiet.
She sat up. Her robe was already laid across the armchair beside the bed, soft and expensive but impersonal just like everything else in this house. Slipping into it, she padded across cold marble floors to begin her routine. Everything was laid out as it always was: toothbrush, serum, slippers. She brushed her hair in front of the mirror without really looking.
Downstairs, the breakfast room was too quiet for a home this large. The small table was set as it always was, by the tall window overlooking the courtyard. The roses outside still clung to frost, their defiant and dying.
On her plate: poached pears, seeded toast, a cup of herbal tea that had already begun to cool. No Cassian, no note.
Just a whisper of movement—the staff, drifting in and out, quiet as shadows.
Liana chewed slowly. Behind her, the old grandfather clock ticked. Each second it marked felt like something leaking out of her, time, maybe, or some version of herself that no longer fit into this curated world.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken aloud without prompting.
The silence was broken by Mireille, appearing exactly when expected, iPad in hand, face unreadable.
“Eleven o’clock in the conservatory,” she said without preamble. “You’re meeting the editorial team from the Architectural Society Quarterly"
Liana swallowed the last bite of toast, dabbed at her mouth. “What are they here for?”
“Feature on the estate,” Mireille replied, scrolling. “They want your perspective on the architectural design, aesthetics, Mr. Holt’s creative legacy.”
Liana arched a brow. “Cassian’s legacy. Not mine.”
If Mireille heard her, she didn’t show it. She turned and left, the soft click of her heels disappearing down the corridor.
Back upstairs, Liana entered the dressing room that felt more like a museum. Rows of clothes, colour-coded, seasonally arranged. A team had already chosen today’s uniform: a fitted champagne dress with whisper-thin sleeves, heels that were the colour of sand, and diamond studs she barely felt when they clipped them on.
The stylist didn’t speak much. Just nods, touch-ups and a final glance of approval before stepping back. Liana looked at her reflection. Everything looked perfect, perfect hair, perfect makeup. Everything nothing but a perfect lie.
The photographer waited outside her door, eyes respectfully lowered, camera slung over his chest.
In the conservatory, glass panels flooded the room with clean, white light. Ferns and orchids were arranged. Liana stood among them like part of the design.
The interviewer who was a young woman in sleek wool and too much perfume, smiled brightly as the photographer began clicking.
“You always seem so poised, Mrs. Holt. I imagine it comes naturally to you?”
Liana smiled without teeth. “It’s learned,” she said quietly.
The questions followed the script: her role in maintaining the conservatory, her vision for the space, Cassian’s influence.
“I support his taste,” she replied carefully. “He believes in clean lines, open light. I try to reflect that.”
“Do you have your own design philosophy?”
The question caught her by the ribs.
“I studied architecture once,” she said slowly. “Back in university. I was fascinated by how space could breathe at how how walls could carry emotion.”
The interviewer scribbled notes while the camera kept clicking. At some point, someone handed Liana a delicate porcelain teacup, a prop, of course. She held it just right. She knew how.
By the time they left, Liana felt nothing. Just another article, another glossy illusion.
Later that afternoon, she wandered the west wing, trailing her fingers along the panelled walls. The portraits of Holt men stared back from their frames—generations of scowls and tailored suits. At the far end, Cassian’s office door stood ajar.
She paused.
His voice, low and precise, carried through.
“I don’t care if the forecast shows a dip. Merge anyway. Delay’s not failure, it’s weakness. Handle it.”
She backed away, unnoticed, the echo of his tone sitting cold in her stomach.
Back in her room, she sat on the edge of her chair, fingertips grazing the surface of the desk. Her mind drifted back to her old life—lecture halls, studio sessions, sketchpads filled with ideas that had nothing to do with marriage or legacy.
She stood abruptly and crossed to the bottom drawer. She used to keep her old sketchbooks there, the ones she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let go of.
She opened it. Nothing.
Her throat tightened. She checked the wardrobe, the desk drawers, the hidden compartment under the dresser, still nothing.
She opened her laptop. Instead of her wallpaper, a password prompt blinked at her, not her usual one.
She tried her standard login. Denied.
The recovery email had been changed. Even her backup files,.the ones she’d buried under folders labelled with boring finance names, were all gone.
A knock. Mireille, again. She stepped inside holding a white envelope.
“From Mr. Holt.”
Liana opened it. A single card, typed in plain font:
Security protocols updated. Sensitive archives secured.
No apology, no permission asked, no explanation offered.
That evening, Cassian played the devoted husband in front of the press. They were seated on a velvet couch while flashbulbs popped during a staged donation ceremony.
A journalist smiled at her. “Mrs. Holt, what are your thoughts on your husband’s urban renewal program?”
Cassian glanced at her. Testing her.
She took a slow breath. “I think cities breathe better when their foundations are reimagined for the people who actually live in them.”
The crowd murmured approvingly. Cassian gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
After the press cleared out, she walked beside him through the hallway, trying to keep her steps even.
“I couldn’t find my old design portfolios,” she said lightly, like it wasn’t tearing something raw open.
He didn’t slow. “They’ve been secured. Our data’s sensitive now.”
“I didn’t ask for them to be moved.”
“You didn’t need to,” he said simply. “You’re my wife. What’s yours is ours.”
The words landed like a door closing.
That night, alone in her room, Liana stared at herself in the mirror. The woman looking back was polished, composed but her eyes held something restless. Something searching.
She peeled off the dress, removed the jewelry. One by one, she let the performance fall away. At the back of the wardrobe, buried under a pile of shawls, she found the one item they hadn’t taken: an old gray sweatshirt from university. She slipped it over her head. It still smelled faintly of paint and charcoal.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. She moved barefoot past the darkened kitchen, through the corridor to the guest library.
The room was small, dusty, barely used. The scent of leather and old paper filled her lungs.
In the far corner, she found the oak cabinet. It looked locked—but she knew her way around the hinges. She’d chosen them herself, once.
She pulled a hairpin from her bun and knelt. With slow, careful pressure, she twisted it in the lock.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Inside, beneath a stack of old magazines, was a plain box with her name on it.
She pulled it out, breath held.
Inside: her sketches, her notes, scribbles in the margins, pages that had once meant everything.
Her past.
Her dream.
Tucked beneath them, almost hidden, was a small silver flash drive. No label except for three words, written in black ink.
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
She stared at it for a long moment. Then slipped it into her pocket.
And closed the cabinet.
- Writer
