Forbidden Touch - The Marriage Contract

Chapter 2: Controlling Desire

The drive to the Adams family mansion is a suffocating quiet, the air thick with tension that hums like a storm about to break. I keep my eyes on the window, watching the world blur past, but I feel Oliver’s presence beside me, cold and unyielding. When we pull up, he leaps out of the car and rushes to open my door before I can even reach for the handle. His gesture catches me off guard, and I glance at him, searching for a hint of warmth in his eyes. There’s none—just the polished facade of the perfect husband he plays so well. I hate it, this pretense he insists on. It’s like a noose tightening around my throat.

I step out, and his hand wraps around mine, large and firm, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. My skin prickles, caught between repulsion and a flicker of something I don’t want to name. I force myself to follow him inside, toward his parents, the weight of expectation hanging heavy in the air.

“Oliver?” A voice slices through the moment, sharp and smooth. A tall, blonde woman steps into our path, her frame impossibly thin, her features sharp with Nordic elegance. Roberta. Her name alone feels like a splinter under my skin.

“Hello, Roberta,” Oliver says, his voice flat as he leans in for a brief kiss on her cheek. His face is a mask, unreadable, but my eyes narrow, trying to unravel the moment. What’s he thinking? What’s she to him? A knot of unease twists in my gut, and I can’t shake it.

I’m lost in the tangle of my thoughts when a hand grazes my arm, gentle but firm, pulling me back to reality. “Anny?”

I turn and freeze. Matheus. His familiar face lights something warm inside me, a spark of joy I haven’t felt in years. “Matheus!” I say, a real smile breaking across my face. He pulls me into a hug, his arms strong, lingering just a moment too long. The warmth of his embrace is a stark contrast to the coldness I’ve grown used to, and it makes my chest ache.

I catch Oliver’s gaze over Matheus’s shoulder, his eyes boring into us, his jaw tight. The tension radiating from him is almost tangible, like a storm cloud ready to burst. Something’s wrong, but I can’t place it, and it sets my nerves on edge.

“It’s been forever,” Matheus says, pulling back with a wide grin. “How’ve you been?”

I’m still reeling from seeing him, my mind scrambling to catch up. Oliver clears his throat, his voice low and edged with something sharp. “He’s my childhood friend,” he says, but the words feel forced, like he’s trying to stake a claim. Childhood friend? Is that all he’s going to say?

“And how are you two… connected?” Oliver’s tone turns cutting, almost accusing, his eyes flicking between us.

“We used to date,” I blurt out before I can stop myself, watching his face for a reaction. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes darken, a storm brewing behind them.

Matheus laughs, light and easy. “A lifetime ago,” he says, his gaze nostalgic. “What, we were fourteen?” We both chuckle, but I notice Oliver’s jaw clench, his composure fraying at the edges.

A petite woman with perfectly styled blonde hair approaches, her touch on Matheus’s arm light but possessive. “Anny, this is my wife, Valentina,” he says, pride warming his voice.

Valentina’s smile is warm, but her eyes hold something unreadable, like a secret she’s not ready to share. “I know who you are,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Where do you two know each other from?” Matheus asks, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“We were neighbors for years,” I say, a soft laugh escaping me, trying to ease the tension coiling in the air.

Matheus raises an eyebrow, playful. “And here I thought everything always led back to you, little redhead.” His teasing nickname pulls another grin from me, a fleeting moment of feeling seen, like I’m more than a shadow in this house.

But Oliver’s already pulling away, his irritation a quiet simmer beneath the surface. I feel it, like a cold draft creeping through the room.

“What’s with him?” Matheus asks, glancing at Oliver’s retreating figure.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, my voice low. “I married him out of obligation. You know that.”

Matheus’s gaze softens, heavy with understanding. “I always knew your dad would push you into something like this,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t make it any easier, does it?”

I manage a faint smile, the weight of his words pressing against my chest. “No. He doesn’t hurt me—not physically. He just… doesn’t care.” I shake my head, my eyes drifting to the floor. “He’s so cold.”

Matheus’s expression darkens. “Oliver’s not the same guy I knew,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s changed.”

I nod, my throat tight. I feel it too—the shift in Oliver, the distance that’s grown between us. Was he always this way, or was I too naive to see it?

We sit down with his parents, and the discomfort settles over me like a heavy fog. Oliver’s presence looms, a dark cloud casting shadows over everything. I steal a glance at him talking to Roberta, his words smooth but his eyes empty. I hate how detached he is, how easily he slips into this polished act with her.

Aurora, Oliver’s mother, breaks the silence, her voice sharp as a blade. “When are you two going to give me grandkids?”

I nearly choke, my heart lurching in my chest. I turn to her, my voice faltering. “Excuse me?”

Her gaze is piercing, expectant. “When are you and Oliver planning to have children?”

I freeze. Children? The idea is absurd. Oliver hasn’t touched me in months—hasn’t even looked at me with anything resembling warmth. A child with him feels like a cruel joke.

“Not the right time, Mom,” Oliver cuts in, his voice clipped, as if the question is a nuisance he hadn’t considered.

Relief floods through me, but it’s bitter, tinged with resentment. I like his family, but him? He’s another story.

The afternoon drags on, each moment heavier than the last. By 3:30, the gathering finally winds down, and we head home in silence, the tension between us thicker than ever. My skin feels too tight, my chest too heavy.

“I’m going to the garden,” I mutter as we pull into the driveway, desperate to escape.

Oliver doesn’t respond. He never does. His silence cuts deeper than any words could.

I grab my book and head to the garden, my sanctuary. The shade of the old oak welcomes me, and I sink into the cool grass, letting it cradle me. I close my eyes, trying to block out the suffocating reality of my life. But even here, in my refuge, I can’t shake the image of Oliver with Roberta—the ease in his voice, the way he looked at her. Who is she to him? And why does it hurt so much to wonder?