The Aftermath.

~ Gideon ~

The house was too quiet when I returned to Moore Crest. Usually, I preferred the silence; it was a sign of a well-oiled machine, a household that didn't demand anything from me. But tonight, the stillness felt heavy, like the air before a storm that refuses to break.

I walked through the foyer, the click of my shoes on the marble sounding sharper than usual. I didn't see Maribel, which was fine. I wasn't in the mood for her sandpaper voice or the way she always looked for a reason to gossip about the staff. I headed straight for the stairs, my mind still running through the quarterly projections I’d left on my desk at Helix Tower.

As I passed the library, a sliver of light caught my eye. I stopped. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open just enough to see inside.

Amara was there. She was sitting in the same oversized leather chair she always occupied, her small frame swallowed by the dark wood. She wasn't reading. She wasn't painting on that canvas she tried so hard to hide whenever I walked in. She was just staring out the window at the garden, which was nothing but a series of expensive shadows in the moonlight.

I stepped into the room. "Amara?"

She flinched. It was a small movement, a slight jerk of her shoulders, but it was enough to make me pause. She turned her head slowly. The light from the single lamp on the desk hit her face, and I saw it. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her lashes clumped together. She had been crying.

"Gideon," she whispered. Her voice was thin, like paper that had been folded too many times. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I just got back," I said. I stayed by the door, keeping the distance between us. I wasn't good at this part. I didn't know how to handle tears that weren't part of a negotiation. "Are you alright?"

She looked back at the window. "I'm fine. Just tired. It was a long day."

I knew it was more than that. I remembered the tea Selene had hosted earlier. I hadn't stayed for the whole thing—I had a call with the Tokyo office—but I’d seen the way Selene had been looking at Amara. I’d heard the low, melodic hum of my cousin's voice as she started in on Amara’s "reserved nature" and how it was such a challenge for the family’s social standing. I had stood there, checked my watch, and walked out. I’d told myself Amara was a big girl. I’d told myself she would manage.

"Selene mentioned the tea went well," I said, though I knew that was a lie. Selene’s version of "well" usually involved someone else ending the day in silence.

Amara didn't respond. She just kept staring at the dark garden.

"She can be... particular about things," I added, trying to find a neutral ground. "Her humor is an acquired taste."

"It wasn't humor, Gideon," Amara said, her voice still low. She finally looked at me, and for a second, the emptiness in her gaze made me feel a flicker of something I didn't like. It wasn't guilt—I didn't have room for that—but it was a disruption. "They talked about me like I wasn't there. They laughed about my clothes. They laughed about my body."

I shifted my weight. "People in this circle talk, Amara. It’s part of the environment. You have to learn to let it slide. You’re being too sensitive."

"Is that what you call it? Sensitivity?" She stood up, her movements stiff. She didn't look like the "quiet mouse" Selene mocked; she looked like someone who was slowly disappearing into the shadows of this house. "You were right there. You heard what she said before you left. You didn't say a word."

"I had a meeting," I said, my voice hardening. I didn't like being questioned. The contract was clear: I provided stability for her family, and she provided the optics of a wife. "My time is managed by the minute. I don't have the luxury of refereeing social spats."

"It wasn't a spat. It was an assassination," she whispered. She walked past me toward the door, her head bowed again, taking up as little space as possible. "But you're right. You have meetings. You have an empire to run. I'm just part of the furniture, aren't I?"

She left the room before I could answer. I stood in the library for a long time after she was gone, the silence of the room feeling less like peace and more like a void.

I told myself it was just "adjustment stress." This was a high-pressure world, and she had come from a place where the biggest problem was a late delivery or a crumbling ledger. She would settle in. She just needed time to realize that in this house, silence was the only shield that actually worked.

I walked to the mahogany desk and noticed a small, leather-bound book tucked into the shadow of the bottom drawer. I reached for it, then stopped.

Conflict-avoidant, the report had said. Internalizes pain.

She was doing exactly what I had paid for. She was staying quiet. She was keeping the drama behind closed doors. The transaction was still sound.

I turned off the lamp and left the library. I had a merger to finalize in the morning, and I couldn't afford to lose sleep over the red eyes of a woman I barely knew. By tomorrow, she would be back to being the compliant acquisition I needed her to be.

I went to the west wing, closed my door, and didn't look back at the east wing where she was. It was better this way. Clean. Efficient. Exactly how a marriage was supposed to be.