Chapter Seven
1270 Words
Chapter Seven – A Crack in the Armor
The next morning, I woke to the sound of rain against the glass.
The penthouse windows were streaked with silver, the city skyline blurred into soft gray. The world looked quieter, softer, almost as if it had decided to take a breath.
I wish I could say the same about myself.
Sleep had been elusive—every time I closed my eyes, I kept replaying Alexander’s words from last night. Maybe the real problem is… you don’t know what to do with the door when it’s open.
What did he even mean by that? And why did it feel like he wasn’t talking about the marriage contract at all, but something… bigger?
I pushed the thoughts aside and forced myself out of bed.
When I walked into the kitchen, Alexander was already there.
He stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, a mug of coffee in hand. The sight was strangely domestic, which was almost comical given that nothing about him was ordinary. His presence filled the room like gravity—inevitable, inescapable.
“Morning,” I said carefully.
“Morning,” he replied, without looking up from whatever document was open on his tablet.
I poured myself coffee and slid into a chair. For a while, the only sounds were the rain and the faint hum of the espresso machine.
Then, without looking up, he said, “I’m flying to Singapore tonight.”
I froze. “For how long?”
“A week. Maybe longer.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. It wasn’t as if I wanted his company—God knew he was impossible—but the thought of him disappearing without warning made the apartment feel… emptier.
“You didn’t think to mention this earlier?” I asked.
“I’m mentioning it now.” He finally looked at me, his expression unreadable. “You’ll manage without me.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Manage? Like I’m some piece of furniture that just sits here until you come back?”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t twist my words.”
“Then say them differently.”
We stared at each other for a long moment. His eyes flickered—just enough for me to know I’d struck a nerve. But instead of arguing, he drained the rest of his coffee, grabbed his jacket, and left without another word.
---
The hours after he left were oddly still.
No footsteps echoing in the hallway. No sound of his low, controlled voice making business calls. Just silence.
I tried reading, but my mind kept drifting. I cleaned the kitchen even though it was already spotless. I stood by the window and watched the rain turn into a fine mist.
By evening, the loneliness felt heavier than I wanted to admit.
---
Around 9 p.m., I found myself wandering into his study.
I’d never really been in here. The door was usually shut, and even when it wasn’t, the air in this room carried the kind of authority that made me feel like I was trespassing.
Dark wood shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged books and files. A sleek black desk dominated the center of the room, with his laptop closed and a single pen resting on a leather pad. Everything smelled faintly of cedar and his cologne—clean, crisp, and distinctly him.
I traced my fingers along the desk, feeling the smooth surface. Then my eyes caught on a small, framed photograph tucked between two books on the shelf.
It was old.
A boy—maybe ten or eleven—stood in the middle of a sunlit field, holding a fishing rod. His smile was small but real, the kind of smile that didn’t look rehearsed.
Alexander.
I’d never seen him look like that.
Next to him stood a woman with the same sharp eyes, though hers were softer, warmer. She was laughing, one hand resting on the boy’s shoulder.
I didn’t know much about his family—he’d never volunteered the information, and I’d never pushed. But something about this photo… it felt sacred, like a piece of him he didn’t want the world to touch.
I set it back exactly where I found it and stepped away, but not before a quiet thought whispered in my mind: There’s more to him than the mask he wears.
---
The next morning, I found a note on the kitchen counter.
Flight moved up. Left early. Don’t wait up.
No signature. No explanation. Just his handwriting—precise, controlled, the kind of script that looked like it had never once wavered.
I should have been relieved. A week without his constant presence sounded like freedom. But instead, I felt… unsettled.
---
Three days passed.
On the fourth night, I was curled up on the couch watching an old movie when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it, but something made me swipe to answer.
“Mrs. Cross?” a male voice said.
“Yes?”
“This is Andrew Collins. I’m Mr. Cross’s head of security.”
My chest tightened. “Is something wrong?”
There was a pause. “Mr. Cross asked me to inform you that his trip has been… extended. He won’t be returning for another week.”
Extended. Not delayed. Not rescheduled. Extended.
I wanted to ask why, but I already knew I wouldn’t get an answer.
“Thank you,” I said instead, before ending the call.
The rest of the night, I couldn’t focus on anything.
---
It was past midnight when I heard the knock.
Not the polite, hesitant kind. A sharp, deliberate knock that made my pulse jump.
I opened the door to find a man in a dark suit I didn’t recognize. His face was hard, his posture too still.
“Mrs. Cross,” he said evenly. “We need to talk.”
I gripped the edge of the door. “Who are you?”
“Someone who can tell you what your husband won’t.”
Something in his tone made my stomach twist. “If this is about business—”
“It’s not,” he cut in. “It’s about why you’re really here.”
The rain outside had started again, soft but steady. Somewhere deep inside, I knew opening that door further might change everything.
And yet… I stepped aside.
---
The man walked in like he belonged there. He didn’t look at the art on the walls or the expensive furniture. His eyes stayed on me, unblinking.
“You think you married Alexander Cross because of a contract,” he said. “But the contract… that’s just the surface.”
I crossed my arms. “And you know this because…?”
“Because I used to work for him. Before I found out what he was really after.”
A strange chill ran down my spine. “And what is that?”
He smiled faintly, but there was nothing warm in it. “Let’s just say… he’s not the only one who’s been keeping secrets.”
Before I could respond, he handed me a small, sealed envelope.
“When you’re ready to see the truth, open it. But once you do… there’s no going back.”
And then he left, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.
I stood there, the envelope burning in my hand, my heart pounding like a drum.
---
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Not because I was afraid of what was inside.
But because I was afraid of how much I wanted to know.
- Writer
