The silence between them had grown roots.
Lucian left earlier than usual now, his morning coffee steaming on the marble counter long after his car had pulled away. Elara stopped waiting for him at dinner. The dining table, once lit with quiet companionship and soft laughter, now sat dim and cold. The distance wasn't physical—it was emotional, and it was deliberate.
Elara noticed the shift first.
He stopped correcting her posture in public. Stopped brushing his fingers near hers when helping her out of the car. Stopped asking how her business plans were going—even though she knew he still funded every part of the setup.
He was there. But not present.
At the office, he worked late into the night, often sleeping at his penthouse or flying out for last-minute business trips. When he was home, he locked himself in his study, barking short instructions to Livia or the guards about Elara's protection. She didn't see him—but she felt him everywhere.
One afternoon, while unpacking in her new boutique office—walls covered in elegant neutral tones and gold trimming—she found a receipt tucked under a design board. A list of orders: custom Italian machinery, premium fabric swatches, a PR team from Geneva. All signed off by Lucian.
He was still supporting her… from the shadows.
> But why avoid her like she was poison?
She tried to brush it off. Focused on work. On meetings. On fittings. On pretending it didn't matter.
But it did.
---
The Breaking Point
He returned from a four-day trip to Astrielle, looking tired and haunted. The moment he stepped into the penthouse, the scent of cinnamon and orchids greeted him—a scent he used to look forward to.
Elara was in the living room, curled up in the armchair with a file, looking ethereal in a deep green wrap dress. She glanced up but didn't smile.
He nodded. Cold.
She stood. "You're back."
"Yes." Curt. Final.
She waited. "You've been away a lot lately."
"I've been working."
"I can tell." Her voice was firm now. "But do you want to tell me why you've been acting like a ghost in this house? You're there. But you're not here."
He didn't look at her. "Don't start this, Elara."
"No, you don't start with me," she snapped. "You're angry. Distant. I didn't sign up to be ignored while pretending to be the perfect wife!"
Lucian's eyes darkened. He took a slow step forward. "Know your place, Elara. This—" he gestured between them, sharp and dismissive, "—isn't real. We signed a contract. That's it."
Her lips parted in shock. "That's low, even for you."
"You wanted a business boost. I wanted silence from the press. Don't get comfortable thinking this is anything more."
She stared at him, hurt blooming across her face like wildfire. Her voice trembled with fury. "You think I'm here because I need your money? I was building before you came. I am still building. You may have helped, but I don't need you to survive, Lucian. Unlike you, I know how to feel something without choking on it."
He flinched—visibly.
She took a breath, and then quieter, colder: "You can keep your boardrooms and silence. But stop pretending you're the only one wounded. I've had enough of being dragged in and out of your moods like some unwanted obligation."
Without another word, she stormed past him, heels clacking like thunder in the corridor. The echo of her departure clung to the walls, heavy and unforgiving.
---
Lucian stood frozen.
His heart was thudding against his ribs, the way it used to when he was younger—when people got too close. When emotions threatened to unravel him.
> She doesn't need me… but I need to stop needing her.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He hated how right she was. He was pushing her away because being near her was dangerous. She made him feel… human again. He couldn't afford that.
But as the silence returned—deafening and cold—he wasn't sure if his control was worth the loneliness.
Absolutely. Here's the continuation of Chapter 8, digging into Lucian's inner conflict, Elara's cold professionalism, and the subtle unraveling of their emotional armor. The tension brews under the surface, building a charged atmosphere readers can feel in their chest.
Lucian sat on the edge of his bed that night, hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. The lights were dimmed, the only source of glow came from the cityscape stretching through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. Skyscrapers blinked like distant stars. Somewhere, far below, the hum of life continued uninterrupted.
But inside him, everything had come to a jarring halt.
He clenched and unclenched his jaw, then exhaled sharply through his nose.
> Why did you say that to her?
The question repeated in his head like a drumbeat.
> "Know your place, Elara…"
"This isn't real…"
"We signed a contract…"
Words he didn't mean. Words that came from fear.
He had always controlled his life through structure—business, power, wealth, isolation. But Elara was unpredictable. Warm. Soft in a way that dug into his hardened places.
Lucian remembered the moment he'd begun pulling back—it was when he caught himself smiling at her laugh in the car. It was the way his chest tightened when she rubbed her eyes sleepily while reading proposals late at night. It was her defense of him at that café when she didn't know he was listening.
> She's not supposed to feel real.
But she did. And the more real she became, the more dangerous this arrangement felt. He was afraid. Not of her—but of himself.
So he did what he always did when something got too close.
He shut down.
*********
Elara, on the other hand, adapted.
Her world had shifted overnight. If Lucian wanted cold professionalism, she would give it to him.
She kept her distance inside the house. Meals were eaten separately unless staff were present. She spoke only when necessary and never initiated casual conversation.
She didn't fight. She smiled politely. She became the wife he paid for—elegant, poised, detached.
When they appeared at public events—like Lucian's Sterling Industries Gala, where he was awarding a new innovation grant—Elara was the perfect consort.
She stepped out of the black car in a deep sapphire gown that kissed the ground with each movement. Her shoulders bare, her back arched in subtle elegance. As cameras flashed, she smiled gracefully and looped her hand through his arm.
"Lucian," she said, lips close to his ear, her tone formal but kind, "thank you for the custom invite. The dress was perfect."
His heart stuttered. But all he said was, "You're welcome."
Inside the ballroom, she played the role. She nodded with executives, laughed with board members, and gently brushed lint off Lucian's lapel in front of the cameras. The illusion was seamless. Yet behind every touch was distance. A cool wall.
Later, when he tried to catch her eye as they sat at the long table during the awards segment, she kept her attention on her glass of champagne. She clapped at the right moments. Laughed at the safe jokes. But her eyes never lingered on him.
---
At home, she was even colder.
When she noticed something missing in his schedule, she adjusted it without speaking.
"Your 10 a.m. board check-in was rescheduled," she said one morning as he came down the stairs, already tying his cufflinks. "You can brief with Niles at 9:30. Your lunch was moved to Thursday."
She was standing beside the island, her tablet in hand, dressed in a cream blouse and high-waisted skirt. Efficient. Elegant. Untouchable.
"You've been managing my schedule?" he asked, surprised.
"I thought it would help," she said, barely glancing up. "Since Livia's been stretched handling your international meetings, I stepped in. It's what a contract wife should do, right?"
Lucian's fingers tightened slightly around the cup of coffee he hadn't even asked for—but she had made anyway.
"Elara—"
"I've already briefed Livia. You don't need to worry." She walked past him, heels clicking across the marble floor. "I'll be heading to the boutique now. Have a good day."
He turned slightly as she walked out, catching a soft waft of her perfume—jasmine and orange blossom—and felt something inside him ache. It was the kind of ache that couldn't be solved with business meetings or billion-dollar contracts.
> I hurt her.
And now I'm losing her.
But how do you fix what you've broken, when you were the one who asked it not to be real in the first place?
He stood there, coffee growing cold in his hand, listening to the door close behind her.