Chapter Twenty-Seven
624 Words
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The days that followed were a battlefield of silence.
Sienna woke each morning to a cold, empty space beside her. Damien was already gone, his side of the bed untouched, as if he hadn’t slept there at all.
At breakfast, they sat at opposite ends of the massive dining table. Damien read the paper, his expression unreadable, his presence untouchable. Sienna picked at her food, sneaking glances at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.
But he noticed. He always noticed.
He just didn’t look back.
The servants whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear. The mansion had grown colder, not because of the marble floors or high ceilings, but because the man at its center had withdrawn into ice.
Every night, the same routine played out. Damien returned late, his cologne lingering faintly in the halls, his jacket draped neatly over the chair. He didn’t come to bed immediately. Sometimes she heard the low murmur of his voice on the phone in his study, issuing orders to his men. Other times, silence—just the creak of floorboards as he moved through the house like a shadow.
When he finally came to their bedroom, he didn’t speak. He changed in silence, climbed into bed in silence, turned his back to her in silence.
Sienna lay awake most nights, staring at his broad shoulders outlined in the dark. Wanting to reach for him. Wanting to close the distance.
But fear kept her still. Fear that if she touched him, he’d turn her away.
On the fourth night, Sienna snapped.
She turned toward him in the dark, her voice breaking the silence. “Damien.”
For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her. His breathing remained steady, controlled. Then his voice cut through the dark, sharp as glass.
“What?”
She flinched, her courage faltering. “I…I hate this,” she whispered. “The silence. It’s suffocating.”
Damien shifted, finally rolling onto his back. His face was cast in shadows, but she could see the hard lines of his jaw, the tension in his body.
“You made this silence,” he said flatly. “Not me.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Because I’m scared.”
“Of me?”
The question was so soft, so dangerous, she felt her breath catch.
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “Not you. Of what you’ll think of me if you know the truth.”
For a long, aching moment, Damien didn’t respond. His hand flexed against the sheets, as though he wanted to reach for her but couldn’t bring himself to.
“Then you’ve already decided,” he said finally, his voice bitter. “You don’t trust me.”
The words cut deeper than any blade.
Sienna reached out, her hand hovering inches above his, trembling. But before she could touch him, he turned onto his side, his back facing her again.
“Go to sleep, Sienna.”
Her hand fell limply to the mattress. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting the sob rising in her throat.
The distance between them had never felt so wide.
The next morning, Sienna lingered at the window of the library, her book forgotten on her lap. She stared out at the gardens, wishing the silence could break, wishing Damien would walk in and say something—anything—to bridge the gulf between them.
Instead, it was the woman from before who haunted her thoughts. That smirk, that whisper, that threat wrapped in silk.
And though Damien hadn’t said it aloud, she knew him well enough by now to sense what he was doing.
He was hunting.
Hunting for the truth she refused to give him.
- Writer
