Chapter 4 – Torn Between Fire and Frost
1343 Words
Back at the penthouse that night, Liam surprised me by waiting in the living room.
His jacket was off. Sleeves rolled. Whiskey in hand.
“You were with Aiden,” he said flatly.
I didn’t lie. “Yes.”
He nodded slowly. “Stay away from him.”
“Why?”
His jaw clenched. “Because he doesn't care who he hurts.”
“Funny,” I snapped. “That sounds familiar.”
He stepped closer, towering over me.
“You don’t know him.”
“I don’t know you either.”
We stood in silence, our breaths shallow.
Then, without warning, he reached for me.
Not violently.
But desperately.
He kissed me.
Hard. Possessive. Like he was trying to erase something.
I kissed him back.
And for a moment, the world disappeared.
No lies. No rules.
Just fire.
But it didn’t last.
He pulled away first, his expression unreadable.
“That was a mistake,” he said.
“Was it?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
He just walked away.
Again.
---
The sound of his footsteps echoed down the hallway like the final gavel in a courtroom.
I stood there for a long time, lips still tingling, mind racing. My chest rose and fell in jagged breaths, not because of the kiss itself, but because of the void it left behind.
A kiss like that doesn’t come from nothing.
It came from pain. From longing. From memories he refused to share and walls he refused to lower.
I went to bed alone that night, curling up under the silk sheets, unsure whether to feel like a woman who had just tasted something real—or a pawn who had just been played.
---
The next morning, the house was empty.
No sign of Liam. No note. No explanation.
I checked my phone. Nothing.
But when I entered the kitchen, a single white rose lay on the counter beside a cup of my favorite herbal tea.
No message.
Just the rose.
I stared at it for a while, then left it untouched.
If he wanted me to keep pretending, he’d have to stop leaving evidence of feelings he refused to name.
---
At work, I tried to focus.
Tried to bury myself in logo sketches and branding proposals.
But my mind kept drifting—to the kiss, the warmth of his hand at my waist, the raw hunger in his eyes.
Then to Aiden’s warning. And the photo of Elena. And the note: "He still visits your grave every month. But he never forgave himself."
I felt like I was standing in the middle of a storm, and every gust of wind revealed another hidden truth about the man I’d married.
That night, I got a text from Liam’s driver.
> “Mr. Blackwood will be attending a private business dinner. You are not expected to join.”
I stared at the message for a long time.
Not invited.
Not expected.
Not needed.
Something inside me cracked.
So, I did something impulsive.
I changed into a simple emerald dress, tied my hair up, and grabbed a cab.
If Liam thought he could keep building walls and shutting doors, he’d forgotten who he married—contract or not.
---
I arrived at the rooftop restaurant where the dinner was being held. It overlooked the city, glittering with light and secrets.
The hostess recognized me instantly. “Mrs. Blackwood. Mr. Blackwood is in the West Wing. May I escort you?”
I nodded.
As I entered the reserved lounge, voices drifted out ahead of me—low, masculine tones and the clinking of fine crystal.
And then—hers.
Veronica.
I froze just outside the frosted glass doors.
“…you can’t keep avoiding this conversation, Liam,” her voice said, silky and sharp. “You’re making a mistake.”
His answer was cool. “Hiring Charles Dawson was your mistake.”
A pause.
“Don’t punish me because I couldn’t carry your child.”
I sucked in a breath.
Inside the room, the silence was thunderous.
“You left before I ever blamed you,” Liam said, quieter now. “But let’s not rewrite history. You wanted the power. You chose it over me.”
Her voice cracked. “I didn’t choose power. I chose survival.”
I heard him stand. A chair scraped against the floor.
“Then survive without me.”
The door opened suddenly, and there he was.
Face to face with me.
Eyes stormy. Jaw set.
I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But I hadn’t meant to care either—and here we both were.
His gaze swept over me in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
“Your driver said I wasn’t expected,” I said, voice calm. “But I came anyway.”
Veronica stepped out behind him. She wore a red velvet dress, lips glossed, her eyes sharp with judgment.
“Hello, Amelia,” she said, a cool smile playing at her lips. “Still playing house?”
Liam turned to her sharply. “Go.”
She raised a brow. “You can’t protect her forever.”
“I’m not protecting her,” he growled. “I’m warning you. Stay away.”
I should’ve left then.
But I stood my ground.
“I’m not your secret,” I said to him. “I’m your wife. You either treat me like one, or I start making decisions for myself.”
Liam’s eyes darkened. “Don’t test me, Amelia.”
“Then stop testing how far I’ll go to prove I’m not afraid of you.”
His chest rose, then fell. Slowly.
Veronica gave us both a satisfied glance. “Well. This is going to be fun to watch fall apart.”
And with that, she walked away, her heels clicking like gunshots.
---
Back at the penthouse, I sat by the glass window in the dark living room, watching the city below.
Liam poured himself another drink. He didn’t speak for a long time.
“She miscarried,” he finally said, voice low.
“I know.”
“She blamed herself. I didn’t. But it broke something between us.”
“Then why does she still want you?”
“Power’s a hard d**g to quit,” he muttered. “Especially when you’ve tasted it through someone else.”
I turned to him. “Is that all I am to you? Power? A tool?”
He looked at me.
And this time, he didn’t lie.
“At first, yes.”
My stomach twisted.
“But now…” he hesitated. “Now I don’t know what you are.”
We sat in silence.
I wanted to say something sharp. Something strong.
But instead, I said, “I’m tired of pretending.”
“So am I.”
He moved toward me, slow and hesitant, like every step cost him something.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Amelia,” he said.
“Then stop pushing me away every time I get close.”
His fingers brushed mine. Light. Careful.
I didn’t move.
His voice dropped. “Stay with me tonight. No lies. No pretending. Just… stay.”
I stared into his eyes and nodded.
---
In his bed, the tension between us wasn’t just physical—it was emotional.
We undressed slowly. Not hungrily. Not recklessly.
But with the kind of care that comes from trying to understand someone’s scars.
His lips found mine again, but this time the kiss wasn’t desperate. It was reverent.
Like a man trying to remember how to feel.
We made love in silence, skin to skin, soul to soul.
No games.
No contracts.
No rules.
Just fire—and healing.
When it was over, I lay against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.
He held me tighter than he ever had.
And just before I drifted to sleep, I whispered the words I’d never said aloud.
“I think I’m falling in love with you.”
He didn’t speak.
But he didn’t let go.
And for now, that was enough.
- Writer
