Forbidden Touch - The Marriage Contract

Chapter 5: The Other

The flight back to Mexico is a blur, the hum of the private jet’s engines a dull roar in my ears. I’m crammed into a plush leather seat next to Oliver, but the space between us feels like a chasm. My chest is tight, frustration simmering beneath my skin, a slow burn I can’t extinguish. I should be relieved to be heading home, but all I feel is a hollow ache, an emptiness that’s become my constant companion. Agnes’s words from Argentina linger in my mind—her knowing gaze, her hint at Oliver’s secrets—but they’re already fading, drowned out by the familiar silence that engulfs us. I’m back to the same old cycle, trapped in a life where I’m nothing but a shadow.

I barely sleep on the plane, my mind a restless tangle of thoughts I don’t want to face. I want to feel like a person again, like I matter, but Oliver’s cold presence beside me makes it clear I don’t. He sits there, all business, his face a mask of indifference, as if I’m just another item on his agenda. I spend the entire flight lost in my head, staring out at the endless clouds, wishing for a life that’s mine, not this hollow charade.

The next morning, I wake near noon, the sun blazing through the curtains, casting harsh light across the room. My phone’s shrill ring jolts me upright, my heart racing as I fumble to silence it. It’s almost lunchtime, and I have no idea where Oliver is. If he’s home, he’ll be furious I slept in, but I can’t bring myself to care. I just need to survive the day. I rush through a shower, the warm water a fleeting balm, washing away the fog in my mind but not the weight in my chest. I pull on shorts and a tank top, the fabric light against my skin, and head downstairs, bracing for whatever awaits me.

The living room stops me cold. Oliver’s on the couch, his expression as icy as ever, but it’s not him that hits me hardest—it’s Roberta. She’s sitting so close to him, their shoulders almost touching, her presence so effortless it’s like a knife to my gut. They look natural together, comfortable in a way he and I have never been. The sight twists something deep inside me, a sharp, searing pain I can’t name. I force my face into a neutral mask, hiding the storm raging within.

“Hey, Anny!” Roberta chirps, her smile bright but fake, a practiced curve of her lips that doesn’t reach her eyes. I see right through it, and I hate it—hate her, hate how she fits so easily into his world.

Oliver barely glances at me, his voice cutting. “What time do you think it is to be waking up?” His eyebrow arches, his tone colder than I’ve ever heard, slicing through me like a winter wind.

“We have guests for lunch,” he adds, his seriousness dismissing my existence as if my time, my feelings, mean nothing.

I clench my jaw, but keep my voice light, defiant. “Sorry, I was exhausted from the trip,” I say, forcing a small smile. It catches him off guard—I can see it in the flicker of his eyes. I never push back, and the tiny act of rebellion feels like a spark of power. “But it’s great to have company. Excuse me, I need to call my mom.”

I don’t wait for his response. I feel his gaze on my back as I turn away, a prickle of awareness that makes my skin tingle. I don’t care. I need this moment, need to hear my mother’s voice, to feel connected to someone who doesn’t treat me like an afterthought. In the quiet of the hallway, I dial her number, and her warm, familiar tone washes over me like a lifeline. We talk about nothing and everything—her garden, the weather, a recipe she’s trying—small things that ground me, that remind me I’m still here, still human.

But when I hang up, the fragile calm shatters. Tears come without warning, hot and heavy, spilling down my cheeks. I wipe them away quickly, my breath ragged, refusing to let anyone—especially my father—see how broken I feel. I steady myself, drawing a deep breath, and head back to the living room, steeling myself for another round of pretense.

Then I see them.

Oliver and Roberta, locked in a kiss.

My heart stops, the world tilting beneath me. My body goes cold, a sick knot twisting in my stomach. I’ve known for years he doesn’t want me, but this—this is a punch to the soul. Their lips move together, intimate, familiar, like I’m the intruder in my own life. I turn away before they can see me, my chest so tight I can barely breathe. A single tear escapes, burning a path down my cheek, and I hate myself for it, for letting this hurt me so deeply.

“Roberta, not here,” Oliver’s voice snaps, harsh and sharp, cutting through the silence as he pushes her away.

I hear the shuffle of movement, feel his eyes on me as he turns. I can’t stop myself—I glance back, and our gazes lock for a split second. There’s something in his eyes—regret, maybe remorse—but it’s too late. The damage is done. My legs feel like lead, but I force them to move, hurrying toward the stairs, desperate to escape.

“Better go home now,” Oliver calls to Roberta, his voice colder than ever, a blade wrapped in ice. The front door slams shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot, followed by his rapid footsteps climbing the stairs behind me.

I don’t look back. I can’t. My heart is a wild thing, pounding so hard it might break free. I reach the bedroom, my sanctuary-turned-prison, and he stops at the top of the stairs, his presence heavy in the air. “What’s going on with you, Anny?” His voice is low, laced with something I can’t decipher—anger, maybe, or something softer.

I don’t answer. I can’t find the words. How do I explain the suffocating loneliness of a marriage that’s never been real? How do I tell him I’m dying inside, crushed by his indifference, by the constant reminder that I’m nothing to him? And now, seeing him with her—it’s too much. I want to scream, to demand answers, to know why he’s chosen her over me, but the words stay locked in my throat.

He stands there, waiting, probably expecting me to break. But I won’t. I can’t let him see how much this hurts, how much I’ve been unraveling. I just want to disappear, to fade into the shadows where I’ve lived for so long.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and I feel his gaze on me, searching, probing. But I keep my back to him, my hands clenched at my sides, holding myself together by sheer will. Agnes’s words echo in my mind—there’s a secret he’s carrying, something that’s changed him. But what does it matter now? Whatever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m trapped, that I’ve been betrayed in my own home. And yet, that flicker of regret in his eyes haunts me, a question I’m not ready to ask.