CHAPTER 4

The days blur into each other in the penthouse. Morning fades into afternoon, and evening brings nothing but silence. The silence has become a constant companion—thick, heavy, and inescapable. It fills each edge of this vast, generic space, repeating stronger than any words Alexander and I have exchanged since our wedding night.

I sit by the window in the lounge, my knees tucked underneath me, some tea developing cold in my hands. Outside, the city hums with life, the roads underneath overflowing with individuals who have places to go, lives to live. I envy them. They’re moving forward while I feel stuck—stuck in a marriage that feels more like a transaction, in a life that doesn’t feel like mine.

Alexander has been gone most of the day. Not that it's uncommon. He leaves promptly in the morning, his suit impeccably tailored, his expression is quite unreadable, and doesn't return until well after dinner.

Sometimes he calls. Sometimes he doesn’t.

But when he does come back, the silence between us feels heavier. It’s not hostile, not cold. It’s just... empty. Like we're two strangers occupying a similar space, reluctant — or unfit — to connect the gorge between us.

I put my cup down and look at the clock. It's past eight. He ought to be home at this time, but I've quit expecting him that he should stick to any sort of schedule that includes me. I ought to feel relieved that he hasn't arrived to fill the silence with his confined lack of concern. But I’m not.

The sound of the elevator breaks through my thoughts. I hear the soft chime, then, at that point, the snap of the penthouse entryway opening. My heartbeat enlivens automatically, and I disdain myself for it.

At the point when Alexander steps inside, he says nothing. He shrugs off his coat, loosens his tie, and strolls directly to the bar toward the edge of the room. He pours a drink for himself , the amber liquid getting the light as it twirls in the glass.

I watch him briefly, uncertain whether to talk or remain silent. The air feels charged, however I can't determine whether it's strain or something different.

“Long day?” I finally ask, my voice hesitant, testing the waters.

He looks at me briefly, his demeanor muddled. "Busy," he says just, taking a taste of his drink.

I nod, uncertain what else to say. The words feel hollow, just like every interaction we’ve had since the wedding.

“Do you always work this late?” I press, trying to keep the conversation going. It seems like trying in vain, however I can't stand the quietness any longer.

Alexander puts his glass down on the counter, turning to face me. His gaze is sharp, almost piercing. “Yes. It’s necessary.”

Necessary. Of course. Everything about him is efficient, calculated, and necessary.

There's no space for anything more — not really for warmth, not so much for connection.

"I see," I mumble, peering down at my hands. I disdain how little I feel under his look, similar to a kid attempting to figure out a world very muddled for her to comprehend.

"Is there something you want, Leila?" he asks, his tone even yet edged with restlessness.

I bite my lip, hesitating. What do I say to that? That I need him to act like my husband? That I need him to see me, to acknowledge me as more than just an obligation? Yet, I can't express any of that. I don't have the boldness.

"No," I say at long last, shaking my head. “I just... wanted to talk.”

He studies me for a moment, his expression softening slightly, but it’s so fleeting I wonder if I imagined it. Then he nods, picking up his drink again. “We can talk,” he says, gesturing toward the couch.

I blink, surprised. He’s never offered to talk before. It seems like a little triumph, however I have no clue about what I'll say since the opportunity has presented itself.

"What is it that you need to discuss?" he asks, his tone nearly... inquisitive

I hesitate, searching for the right words. “I... I want to understand,” I begin slowly, my voice trembling slightly. “I want to understand how this is supposed to work. This... marriage.”

His demeanor doesn't change, yet I notice the manner in which his jaw fixes, just somewhat. "It works how it was intended to," he says. “You’re here. I’m here. We fulfill our roles.”

“And what are our roles, exactly?” I ask, my voice firmer now. “Because right now, I feel like I’m just... existing in your world without any purpose.”

Alexander leans back, his gaze never leaving mine. “Your purpose is to be my wife. To support me when necessary. To represent this marriage with dignity and grace.”

“Dignity and grace?” I repeat, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “Is that all you expect from me? To smile and nod and play the perfect wife while you live your life however you want?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes one more taste of his drink, his look insightful. "I anticipate that you should figure out the terms of our arrangement, Leila," he says at last. "And to acknowledge them."

The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. “Accept them?” I echo, my voice rising. “How am I supposed to accept this, Alexander? This isn’t a marriage. This is... this is a prison.”

His eyes flash, a flicker of something sharp and dangerous passing through them. “A prison?” he repeats, his voice low but charged. “"Do you think I don't feel the same way?"

The inquiry surprises me. I gaze at him, my heart beating. "What are you referring to?"

“This arrangement,” he says, his tone hardening. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I enjoy being tied to a woman I barely know because of some deal our families made?”

His words sting, however there's something different underneath them — something crude and genuine that I didn't anticipate.

"I didn't request this possibly," I say, my voice shaking. "However, I'm attempting. I'm attempting to figure out it, to track down a lifestyle choice with it. And all I get from you is quiet."

Alexander exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he looks almost... human. Vulnerable. “Silence is easier, Leila,” he says softly. “It’s safer.”

The confirmation lingers palpably between us, weighty and implicit. I don't know what to say to that. I don't have the foggiest idea how to overcome any barrier between us when it seems like we're both trapped in our own cages .

"I don't need quiet," I say at last, my voice barely over a murmur.. “I want... I want something real.”

Alexander looks at me then, really looks at me, and for the first time, I see something in his eyes that I can’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Or longing. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

"Genuine isn't a possibility for us," he says, his voice cold once more. "This is the truth we need to live with."

I feel the tears prickling at the sides of my eyes,but I refuse to let them fall. Instead , I nod, standing up from the couch. “I understand,” I say quietly. “Thank you for clarifying.”

“"Leila — " he starts, however I don't allow him to wrap up. I leave, going to the room before he can see the tears that are presently gushing down my face.

As I close the door behind me, I rest up against it, my chest hurling with quiet wails. I don't have the foggiest idea how to live this way. I don't have the foggiest idea how to get by in a marriage that feels more like a combat zone than an partnership.

But, as I sink to the floor, I feel a flash of something somewhere inside me — a flash of resistance, of assurance. I might not have picked this life, however I'll be doomed assuming I let it annihilate me.

As I clear the tears from my cheeks, I hear the weak sound of voices outside the bedroom door. Alexander is on the phone, his tone low and urgent. I press my ear to the door, stressing to hear, and my blood runs cold at the words that reach me.

"She's not ready yet, but she will be. I'll ensure it.