The silence after the punch was louder than the impact itself—until Vincent laughed.
Not the kind of laugh that came from humor, but one twisted with bitterness and bruised pride. He stumbled back a step, rubbing his jaw with a crooked grin.
"Look at your perfect husband, Naomi," Vincent said, his voice sharp like broken glass. "First time in how many years, and that's how he greets me. Some welcome."
Naomi blinked. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her heart was racing, and her eyes were fixed on Damien—not the Damien she knew, not the man who held her under the stars just hours ago. This Damien was breathing hard, fists clenched, eyes dark.
"Let's go inside," he said tightly.
Naomi didn't move. Her brain was still catching up, trying to process what she just heard.
Vincent—his brother—went to prison… for him?
Her gaze swung back to Vincent, whose smirk returned when he noticed her hesitation.
"Ask him why, sweetheart," he added, voice oily. "Ask him what I gave up for him. Bet he won't tell you."
"Naomi," Damien said again, lower now, almost pleading.
She still didn't move.
Then his tone snapped like a wire pulled too tight.
"Go inside, Naomi!"
Naomi flinched.
He had never raised his voice at her. Not once. Not even when they argued about little things, like who left the fridge open or when she took too long to pick a dress.
Something in her chest shifted.
She turned on autopilot and walked into the house. Her feet felt heavy, like she was walking through thick water. The silence inside was different now—suffocating.
A few seconds later, Damien entered. His breathing was uneven, his steps unsure.
"Naomi," he said quietly.
She didn't turn to face him.
"I'm sorry," he continued, voice strained. "I shouldn't have shouted. I didn't mean to scare you. I—I just lost control."
Still, no response.
Damien ran a hand through his hair. "I don't even know how he found this place. I didn't tell anyone. Maybe the staff, or someone leaked something—I'll figure it out. I swear I'll—"
He paused, finally realizing he was talking to a woman who wasn't really there.
Naomi was sitting on the edge of the couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her eyes staring straight ahead.
She didn't even blink when he stepped closer.
"Naomi," he said again, softer now, as he reached out.
She startled, recoiling from his touch. In the sudden motion, her hand caught the bracelet he had gifted her—his favorite piece on her wrist—and it snapped.
The tiny clasp gave way. The bracelet tumbled to the floor with a soft clink.
Damien bent immediately to pick it up.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, holding it carefully. "I didn't mean—"
"Was he telling the truth?" Naomi asked, her voice barely a whisper.
He froze.
She finally looked at him, her eyes searching, wounded.
Damien didn't say a word.
He only bowed his head.
And in that moment, the silence said everything.
Naomi swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight. "When were you going to tell me?" she asked. "What did you do?"
She didn't realize she was crying until the first tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily, but more followed.
She wasn't crying because the bracelet broke.
She wasn't crying because Vincent scared her.
She was crying because she was starting to realize she didn't know the man she married. Because she had no idea how deep this went. And because—standing here now—she wasn't sure anyone was on her side.
After a while, Naomi wiped her face with trembling fingers, brushing away the tears that refused to stop earlier. She sat still on the couch, chest rising and falling slowly, as if willing herself to breathe evenly. Across from her, Damien hadn't moved. He stood there like a statue—like someone who knew they'd messed up but had no idea how to fix it.
Naomi finally stood up, steadying herself. Her eyes fell on the bracelet—the one he'd given her. It lay there on the floor, the clasp broken, the chain coiled like it had given up too.
Broken. Like her.
Like her trust.
She bent, picked it up carefully, and held it in her palm. Then, without looking at Damien, she whispered, "Excuse me," and walked past him, slow and deliberate, not in anger—but in pain.
She reached the guest room and quietly shut the door behind her. The silence inside didn't comfort her. It only echoed.
Her mind drifted to months ago, back when they were still dating. They had been having dinner at that little rooftop place she loved, the night Damien told her about his family. She had been teasing him, asking what his parents would think of her. That's when he said it.
"We're actually four," he said, swirling the wine in his glass. "My parents, me, and my brother. Vincent."
She remembered the way his face changed—not completely, but enough to notice. That faint tension in his jaw.
"We don't talk about him," he added quickly. "He was… always trouble. Never followed rules. Got into the wrong crowd, made all the wrong choices. Prison was where he ended up—and honestly, it's where he belongs."
Naomi had frowned, but Damien had reached across the table and held her hand. "You don't need to worry about him," he had said gently. "My parents don't even like bringing him up. He's part of the past."
But the past had found them.
Back in the present, Naomi's fingers tightened around the broken bracelet. A knock came on the door—not loud, not aggressive. Just… there.
"Naomi," Damien's voice called softly. "I'm sorry. For earlier. For shouting. I lost control, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."
He hesitated.
"I never wanted you to see that part of my life. I wanted to protect you from it. From him."
Another pause.
"I think we should leave," Damien said quietly. "If Vincent found us here, it means this place isn't safe anymore."
Naomi didn't say a word. She just stared at the broken bracelet in her palm, her heart sinking with it.