Forbidden Touch - The Marriage Contract

Chapter 4: Argentina

The shrill blare of my alarm rips me from sleep, a harsh intrusion that makes me groan as I stretch beneath the covers. My hand drifts to the space beside me, searching for Oliver, but it’s cold, empty, as always. I pause, straining to hear any sign of him, and catch the faint rush of the shower from the bathroom. Sighing, I let my head sink back into the pillow, the weight of another day pressing down on me. All I want is to stay cocooned in the warmth of this bed, to let the world slip away and forget everything—Oliver, this marriage, the cage I’m trapped in. But that’s a fantasy, and I know it.

The shower stops, and Oliver emerges, steam curling around him like a ghost. His towel hangs low on his hips, and for a fleeting moment, my heart quickens as my eyes trace the lines of his body—broad shoulders, lean muscles, the kind of effortless beauty that catches you off guard. I shake my head, forcing myself to look away, chastising my traitorous thoughts. I can’t let myself feel this, not for him, not after everything.

I watch him from the corner of my eye as he grabs his clothes, his movements precise, almost mechanical. He’s so handsome it hurts, and I hate myself for noticing. I turn to my book, gripping it tightly, trying to anchor myself in its pages, but his presence fills the room, inescapable.

“Hey,” he says, his voice cutting through my thoughts. I flinch, startled that he’s speaking to me. He’s standing by the door, his eyes meeting mine, waiting for something—I don’t know what. “You gonna be okay today?”

His question feels hollow, like he already knows we’re headed to Argentina for some business trip he hasn’t bothered to explain. “Yeah, of course,” I mutter, avoiding his gaze, my voice barely masking the frustration simmering inside.

He doesn’t say another word. With a final glance, he leaves, and I’m alone again, left to gather the pieces of myself for another day of pretending. I linger in bed, the sheets soft against my skin, but the comfort is fleeting. I force myself up and head to the bathroom, turning on the shower. The hot water cascades over me, and I close my eyes, letting it wash away the weight of the morning. But my mind betrays me, drifting to Oliver—his defined chest, the way his presence lingers in my thoughts despite his coldness. It’s absurd. He’s never kind to me, yet my body responds in ways I can’t control, a pull that leaves me embarrassed, frustrated, angry at myself.

I step out of the shower, my skin still warm, and freeze. Oliver’s back, sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on me. The towel clings to me, and I clutch it tighter, my cheeks burning under his gaze. It’s intense, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t understand. My heart pounds, a wild rhythm I can’t tame.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice shaky, barely above a whisper.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “It’s my room, Anny.”

My pulse races, his coldness a familiar sting. Why does he always push me away? Why can’t he just leave me alone when I need space? “I’m changing in the bathroom,” I mumble, grabbing my nightgown and fleeing before he can say anything else.

The bathroom door locks behind me, and I lean against it, my breath uneven. The memory of his gaze lingers, a spark of something—desire, maybe?—that I refuse to believe. It’s impossible. I dress quickly, the cotton soft against my skin, and step back into the bedroom, bracing myself.

He’s lying in bed now, stripped to his boxers, his body exposed in a way that makes my breath catch. I’ve never noticed how he sleeps, but now it’s impossible to ignore—the lean lines of his frame, the way the dim light traces his skin. It’s too intimate, too raw, and it leaves me feeling exposed. I climb into bed, keeping as much distance as the vast mattress allows, my heart hammering. I can’t bear to feel his warmth, to be so close yet so far.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, his back to me like a wall. Then his voice cuts through the silence, flat and detached. “Sleep early. We’re going to Argentina tomorrow. Business.”

Argentina. The word lands like a stone, heavy and meaningless. His indifference is suffocating, and I can’t understand why he won’t even look at me, why I’m nothing to him. I turn away, my back to him, trying to shut out the heat of his body, the faint scent of his cologne. I just want to sleep, to escape.

But as my eyes close, tears slip down my cheeks, hot and silent, a quiet storm I can’t contain. I hate myself for crying, for letting his coldness break me, but the loneliness is a living thing, wrapping around my heart until I can barely breathe. Sleep comes eventually, but it’s restless, haunted by the life I’m trapped in.

The next morning, I’m a bundle of nerves as we reach the airport. A driver ushers us to a private jet, the luxury of it all feeling like a cruel mockery of my life. I follow Oliver up the steps, my stomach twisting. I hate that I can’t have a moment to myself, that the cameras are always watching, snapping photos for some magazine spread. Oliver won’t let me step out of line, not when it risks his perfect image.

We settle into our seats, side by side, but I might as well be alone. I stare out the window, watching clouds drift by, longing to lose myself in their quiet freedom. But Oliver’s presence beside me—stoic, businesslike, treating me like an afterthought—grounds me in this suffocating reality.

Hours later, we land in Argentina. Oliver’s out of the jet before I can stretch my legs, leaving me to trail behind. Employees handle our luggage, and photographers swarm, their flashes blinding. I force small, polite smiles, hating how they see me—a trophy wife, nothing more. The car ride takes us to a modest two-story house in a middle-class neighborhood, a stark contrast to the mansion back home. My throat tightens with nerves as we approach. What am I walking into?

Inside, a man greets Oliver with a booming laugh. “My king!” he says, clapping Oliver on the back.

“Hey, brother!” Oliver replies, his laugh warm, easy—foreign. I’ve never heard him like this, so alive, so unguarded. It’s jarring, like seeing a stranger wearing his face. Who is this man, and why have I never met him?

A woman approaches, her dark eyes striking against pale skin, her beauty almost otherworldly. “Hello, Oliver,” she says, her voice honeyed, too sweet. “So glad you finally brought your wife.”

She turns to me, her smile wide but sharp, like it hides something. “I’m Agnes.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, forcing a smile, but her gaze unsettles me, like she sees right through me.

The day passes in a haze of small talk and tea, the air thick with unspoken questions. Agnes watches me, her eyes soft but piercing, and it’s not long before she pulls me aside, her voice gentle. “You seem off, Anny. Everything okay?”

I hesitate, my guard up. “Just tired,” I lie, offering a weak smile.

She doesn’t buy it. “I can tell you’re not. It’s Oliver, isn’t it? He’s different with you.”

I blink, stunned. How does she know? I nod slowly, my throat tight. “He’s so cold. Nothing like the man he shows everyone else.”

Agnes’s smile is knowing, tinged with sadness. “I thought so. I knew him before—years ago, when he was different. Warmer. But something changed after his father’s deal with yours. There’s a weight on him, Anny, a secret he carries. I don’t know what it is, but I see it in his eyes.”

Her words hit like a punch, stirring a mix of curiosity and dread. A secret? What could Oliver be hiding? And why does it feel like Agnes knows more than she’s letting on? She squeezes my hand, her touch grounding. “You’re not alone in this. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

I nod, my chest tight with a flicker of hope—and fear. Agnes’s words linger as we leave, a thread pulling me deeper into the mystery of the man I married. What is he hiding? And what does it mean for me?