Forbidden Touch - The Marriage Contract

Chapter 3: Sleep Early

The garden is my refuge, the one place where the weight of my life feels a little lighter. I linger under the old oak until the sun dips low, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet. The cool evening air brushes my skin, but it does nothing to ease the ache in my chest, a heaviness that’s become as familiar as my own heartbeat. For a few stolen hours, I’m free—or as close to free as I can get. But the moment I step back into the mansion, the silence swallows me whole, pulling me back into the suffocating reality I can’t escape.

Inside, the air feels stale, thick with the absence of life. Oliver sits on the couch, his face buried in a book, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. I don’t look at him. I can’t. The sight of him—calm, detached, untouchable—twists something deep inside me, a mix of anger and longing I don’t want to name. Without a word, I turn and climb the stairs to our bedroom, my footsteps echoing in the hollow space.

The bedroom is no sanctuary. The four walls close in, a reminder of the four years I’ve spent trapped in this lie of a marriage. Every day is a slow, suffocating crawl, each moment heavier than the last. I’m married to a man who doesn’t want me, who doesn’t even see me as a wife. Oliver’s cold indifference is a constant wound, a reminder that I’m nothing more than a prop in his perfectly curated life. Why did he marry me? The bitter truth gnaws at me: it was likely just to secure his inheritance, a transaction as cold as his gaze. The thought churns my stomach, a sickening mix of betrayal and resignation.

The housekeeper’s voice drifts up the stairs, calling me for dinner, but I don’t answer. The idea of sitting across from Oliver, forcing a smile while his silence cuts into me, makes my stomach lurch—“I’m not hungry,” I murmur to the empty room, my voice barely audible. I need to clear my head, to escape the relentless ache that’s settled in my heart.

I draw a bath, the steam rising in soft curls, filling the bathroom with a hazy warmth. As I sink into the hot water, it wraps around me like a fleeting embrace, soothing the tension in my muscles but doing nothing for the storm in my mind. The heat seeps into my skin, and for a moment, I close my eyes, letting it drown out the world. But the thoughts keep coming—too much sadness, too much loneliness, too much of everything I can’t bear. I stay in the tub until my fingers wrinkle, chasing a peace that never comes.

When I finally step out, wrapping a towel around me, my skin still warm and flushed, I freeze. Oliver is there, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. His posture is rigid, like he’s waiting for something—or someone. Then his eyes lift, and they find me. His gaze locks onto my body, intense and unyielding, and my breath catches in my throat. The air between us crackles, heavy with something I don’t understand. My heart pounds, a wild rhythm that drowns out everything else. Why is he looking at me like that? What’s going through his mind?

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile silence hanging in the room.

His eyes meet mine, unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something—something that makes my pulse race. “What do you mean? It’s my bedroom,” he says, his voice calm, too calm, like a still lake hiding a current beneath.

A chill crawls up my spine, my skin prickling under his gaze. “I’m going to change in the bathroom,” I say quickly, desperate for distance. I grab my nightgown and flee, my bare feet slapping against the cold tile as I lock the bathroom door behind me.

My hands tremble as I lean against the sink, trying to steady my breathing. Why did he look at me like that? For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw desire in his eyes, a spark that shouldn’t exist. But no—Oliver doesn’t want me. It’s impossible. I shake my head, pushing the thought away, but it lingers, a dangerous whisper in the back of my mind. I change quickly, the soft cotton of my nightgown sliding over my still-warm skin, and force myself to step back into the bedroom.

He’s lying in bed now, stripped down to his boxers, his body exposed in a way that makes my breath hitch. I’ve never noticed how he sleeps—how have I missed this? His broad shoulders, the lean lines of his frame, the way the dim light traces the contours of his body—it’s too much. I feel vulnerable, like I’m the one laid bare. Swallowing hard, I climb into bed beside him, my heart hammering so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. The mattress feels vast, a cold expanse between us. I shift, careful not to touch him, afraid of what his warmth might do to me.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, his back to me like a wall. The silence is oppressive, pressing down on me until his voice cuts through it, sharp and detached. “You should sleep early. We’re going to Argentina tomorrow. I have business there.”

Argentina? The word barely registers, drowned out by the suffocating weight of his indifference. He doesn’t even look at me when he speaks, and it’s like a blade to my chest. Why can’t he just turn to me? Why can’t he be softer, kinder, even for a moment? I don’t understand why he refuses to acknowledge me, why I’m nothing more than a ghost in his world.

I turn onto my side, my back to him, desperate to shut him out. I don’t want to feel the heat of his body, don’t want to catch the faint scent of his cologne, don’t want to be reminded of how close he is and yet how far away. I just want to sleep, to escape this prison of a life.

But as soon as my eyes close, tears slip down my cheeks, silent and unstoppable, like a quiet storm breaking inside me. I hate myself for crying, for letting his coldness break me again, but I can’t stop. The loneliness is a living thing, wrapping around my heart, squeezing until I can barely breathe.

I don’t know when I drift off, but sleep doesn’t bring the peace I crave. Even in my dreams, I’m trapped, suffocating in a life that isn’t mine. And somewhere, in the haze of my thoughts, that fleeting look from Oliver lingers—a spark of something dangerous, something that could unravel everything I’ve tried to bury.