Chapter 5: Terms of Loneliness
Aria stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, fingers loosely curled around a brush she hadn't used. Her wedding dress was gone, replaced by a pale satin robe that felt too soft against skin that still remembered the weight of the contract she signed.
The estate was quiet. Always quiet.
She wandered downstairs late that evening, her bare feet cold against the polished floors. There was no welcome. No footsteps. No Elias.
The maid had brought dinner to her room earlier, untouched. She wasn't hungry. She was restless.
Drawn to the glow of warm light, Aria stepped into the study.
It was lined wall-to-wall with books—business, history, a few worn leather-bound classics. A decanter of amber liquid rested on the side table beside a single glass. The room smelled faintly of cedar and something more expensive—his cologne, maybe. The ghost of his presence.
She reached for a book but paused when she saw the frame tucked among the ledgers.
A photo.
It was old—maybe ten years ago. A teenage Elias stood beside a man with the same strong jaw and sharp eyes, but with a crueler smile. His father, she assumed.
They weren't smiling in the photo. Just… enduring it.
Aria set it down carefully.
She didn't hear the door open.
"You're not sleeping?"
She turned sharply.
Elias stood in the doorway, dressed down in slacks and a black T-shirt that somehow made him look even more intimidating. He glanced at the photo, then away.
"I couldn't sleep," Aria said honestly.
He entered the room without invitation, poured himself a drink, and leaned against the edge of the desk.
"This house isn't easy to sleep in."
She hesitated. "Is that why you leave so often?"
His eyes flicked to her, unreadable. "I leave because business requires it."
"That's not what I asked."
For a second, silence stretched between them like a wire. Then he looked away, swirling the liquid in his glass.
"This house remembers too much."
It was the closest thing to vulnerability she'd heard from him.
Aria stepped closer, studying him in the dim light. "That locked door upstairs. What's behind it?"
Elias's jaw tightened. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."
"I live here now. Am I supposed to avoid all the shadows?"
"You're not supposed to dig through them."
Her voice was quiet. "Maybe I just don't want to live like a stranger."
He met her eyes then—and for the first time, really looked at her.
Not like an obligation. Not like a deal.
Like a person.
But whatever he saw there, he shut it out quickly. The walls went back up.
"You agreed to a contract," he said coldly. "Not a connection."
Her chest ached, but she nodded. "Right. Of course."
She turned to go.
"Aria."
She froze in the doorway.
"For what it's worth," he said, "you're holding up better than I expected."
She didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult. So she said nothing.
Just walked away.
And behind her, she swore the silence deepened.