Chapter 9: Spilled Silence, Stirred Hearts
Lucian hadn't been sleeping well. His nights had grown long and his mornings even colder. The cold marble floors of the Thornfield estate echoed with silence now — the kind of silence that screamed. And he hated it.
She wasn't avoiding him. Not really. But she was present without being there — brushing past him in the hallway with a calm "Good morning," smiling politely at charity galas, attending business dinners in a stunning dress he bought, yet never letting her gaze linger long enough to ignite anything real. She'd perfected the role of the contract wife — immaculate, supportive, composed… distant.
He missed her laughter. The gentle way she used to ask him if he'd eaten. The random "I saw this and thought of you" texts. But ever since he snapped during that argument — told her to know her place — she had drawn a sharp, invisible line between them.
And she was thriving. Lia Hairs and Fashion was blossoming under the team he'd assembled. She worked hard — harder than he expected. Sometimes he watched her from the terrace above her new office downtown, sipping black coffee as she arrived early, greeted her staff with grace, and set to work with a fire in her eyes that reminded him why he noticed her in the first place.
One afternoon, his executive assistant barged into his office.
"Mr. Thornfield, there's a situation at the Marquette event."
"What kind of situation?" he asked, already rising.
"Your wife… there's a group of investors questioning her qualifications. One of them, Dana Corven, implied she's only taken seriously because she's 'on your arm.'"
Lucian's jaw tightened.
By the time he arrived, the room hushed. Dana's smile faltered the moment she saw him. He walked to elora's side — expression unreadable — then placed a gentle but firm hand on her back.
"I didn't realize women in business needed to justify their presence these days," he said coolly. "Especially not someone who has more vision and integrity than half this room combined."
Dana opened her mouth to respond.
"Unless, of course, you're jealous of her success," he added smoothly, before escorting Elora out — not saying another word.
Later that week, at a luxury fundraiser, the tables turned. A woman, barely dressed and oozing intent, cornered Lucian. "Still playing house with the new trophy?" she cooed, fingers grazing his arm.
Elora's voice cut in, crisp and clear. "If being successful, graceful, and loyal makes me a trophy, then thank you." She slipped her arm around Lucian's and added, "But he doesn't play house. He builds homes."
The woman paled. Lucian blinked — floored by how proud he felt in that moment.
It was late when he returned home a week later. The house was quiet. No staff in sight. He hadn't planned to stay the night, but exhaustion dragged his bones.
His stomach grumbled as he stepped into the dimly lit kitchen. Empty. Of course. They hadn't expected him.
Then he heard light humming.
She stood by the stove, barefoot in silk lounge pants and a tank top, her hair pinned messily atop her head.
"You're home," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "Didn't think you'd be."
"I didn't think I'd be either," he murmured. "What are you making?"
"Spicy noodles. Want some?" she asked without turning.
He nodded.
Minutes later, he awkwardly stood by the chopping board. "What do I do with this?" he asked, holding a bell pepper like it offended him.
She chuckled, covering his hand gently with hers. "Here. Slice, not stab. It's a vegetable, not a contract."
Their hands brushed. Silence settled.
He was supposed to look away. He didn't.
She was supposed to pretend she didn't notice. She couldn't.
The air grew thick as she stirred the pot. Lucian's gaze lingered on her — the curve of her neck, the way her lips pursed in focus. He wanted to touch her… not out of lust, but out of longing.
"Lucian," she said softly, "it's burning."
He blinked, eyes darting to the stove. She quickly lifted the pot off the flame.
They both laughed — a soft, awkward sound.
As she served the noodles, he whispered, "Thank you… for defending me. And for this."
She smiled without looking up. "Contract or not, I care about my image… and yours."
He nodded, pretending it didn't sting.
But deep down, something had changed — something small but irrevocable.
And neither of them knew how to stop it.
Lucian slurped a forkful of the spicy noodles, wincing slightly as the heat hit his throat.
"Hot," he muttered.
She smirked without sympathy. "That's the point."
They ate at the kitchen island in silence, the kind of silence that didn't demand to be filled — not right away.
He caught her watching him as he drank water to cool his mouth, and she quickly looked away.
"I didn't think you'd be home tonight," she said, a little too flatly.
He set his glass down. "I wasn't supposed to be. But I found myself thinking about… this place. You."
She didn't respond, just kept twirling noodles with her fork.
"You've changed," he added quietly.
Still, she didn't look at him. "That tends to happen when people get thrown into a circus and asked to smile like it's a pageant."
He gave a dry laugh. "Touché."
She finally glanced at him, expression unreadable. "You say things like that, Lucian… Then disappear for days. You keep me at arm's length, and then make decisions for me without asking. What exactly do you want from me?"
The question hung in the air. He didn't know how to answer it without confessing more than he was ready to.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I find myself thinking about what makes you smile. What you like to eat. Whether you're cold. Whether the media will attack you. I hate how much space you take up in my head."
She scoffed. "I'm not trying to take up space. You made it clear this isn't real."
"I know," he murmured. "But maybe I forgot."
Their eyes locked.
She stood abruptly and carried her bowl to the sink. "Don't do that," she said.
"Do what?"
"Say things that make me feel things. Then shut down the next morning. Don't be kind when you're going to be cold again."
He stood too. "I'm not trying to confuse you."
She turned around, her eyes sharp. "But you are. You confuse me, Lucian. You treat me like a stranger in our own home… yet you hover over my business, hire teams to support me, send flowers to my events, and show up at every important moment. And then you vanish. What do you want me to think?"
His throat tightened. "I don't want you to think anything. I want you to be okay. Safe. Happy. Even if I'm not the one who gives you that."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then she said softly, "You're not a bad man, Lucian. But you're scared. Of being seen. Of being cared for. And you push everyone away because of it."
He looked at her like she had just said something forbidden. Something he didn't want to be true.
He turned to go.
"Thank you," she added. "For tonight. And the team. And for standing up for me. I see it… even when you think I don't."
He paused in the doorway, his back to her. "You're not just playing the role anymore, are you?"
She didn't answer.
He didn't wait for one.
The soft light of the kitchen cast long shadows across the marble as she washed her plate, and he disappeared down the hallway.
But something had cracked open tonight — something raw and fragile. And despite every wall they'd both built… they had stood in that kitchen like two people starving for something more than just noodles.