CHAPTER 2: HUNGER AND SILENCE

AMARA'S P.O.V

The De Guzman mansion is everything people dream about... and everything I dread.

The wrought iron gates groan open as our car pulls in, the long driveway lined with manicured hedges, fountains spouting water like they belong in a European palace. Marble statues stand guard, lifeless and perfect, their blank eyes following me as if they already know I don’t belong here.

When the driver opens my door, I step out carefully, the weight of my gown replaced by a simpler silk dress Marcus had insisted I change into after the reception. The fabric clings to my skin in the humid night air, and for a second, I feel exposed, vulnerable, as if the house itself is sizing me up.

It looms before me... white walls, glass windows that gleam under the moonlight, sprawling wings that stretch like arms ready to swallow me whole.

“This is home now,” Marcus says, his tone flat, businesslike, as though he’s presenting me with a contract rather than a life.

Home.

The word twists in my chest.

Inside, the air smells faintly of polish and money. Marble floors stretch endlessly, chandeliers hanging like frozen stars. A grand staircase spirals upward, its railings gilded, polished to a shine. Every corner screams wealth, but the silence between the walls is deafening.

Maids in crisp uniforms bow politely as we pass, their eyes lowered, their faces blank masks. I wonder if they know I’m just another ornament in this house.

Marcus leads me upstairs without another word. He shows me our room... or rather, his room. It’s large, immaculate, the kind of place designed for show, not comfort. The bed is wide enough to fit three people, but when he tosses his jacket on the chair, I already know there will always be space between us.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says, loosening his tie. His voice lacks warmth, as though he’s speaking to an employee, not a wife.

“Marcus…” I begin, unsure if I should push, if I should ask for… something. A sliver of affection. A sign that he cares. But his phone buzzes before I can continue. He checks the screen, his brows tightening.

“I have calls to make.” He doesn’t look at me. “Get some rest.”

Calls. On our wedding night.

I stand frozen as he leaves the room, his figure disappearing behind the heavy mahogany door. The silence he leaves behind presses in on me until I can hardly breathe.

So this is it. This is married life.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, my hands gripping the sheets. My chest aches, a hollow pain that spreads deeper the longer I sit in this empty room. My wedding ring feels heavier than ever, cutting into my skin like a brand.

I don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are there, waiting, but I swallow them back, refusing to let this house hear me break.

Later that night, I wander downstairs in search of water. The corridors are dim, the glow of wall sconces throwing long shadows across the marble. My bare feet whisper against the floor as I make my way to the kitchen, the silence of the mansion thick, oppressive.

When I step inside, I freeze.

He’s there.

Luke.

He leans against the counter, a glass of something dark in his hand. His shirt is half unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the tattoos along his arm catching the faint light. He looks entirely out of place in this pristine house... wild, dangerous, untamed.

And he’s watching me.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his lips curving into that same smirk I can’t seem to forget. “If it isn’t Mrs. De Guzman. Out of bed already?”

My throat tightens. “I was just… thirsty.”

“Thirsty.” He lifts his glass, whiskey swirling lazily inside. “Funny. So am I.”

His gaze drags over me slowly, deliberately, until heat prickles across my skin. I cross my arms, as if that flimsy barrier will shield me from the intensity of his stare.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I whisper, though I hate how weak my voice sounds.

“Like what?” He sets the glass down with a soft clink and pushes away from the counter. His steps are slow, measured, each one making my pulse quicken. “Like you’re something I want?”

My heart slams against my ribs. He’s too close now, close enough that I can see the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the glint of mischief in his dark eyes.

I force myself to turn away, reaching for the glass jug on the counter. My hands shake as I pour water into a glass, the sound of liquid splashing far louder than it should be.

He doesn’t move away.

When I finish, I reach for the glass... but his hand gets there first. His fingers brush mine deliberately, his touch electric, searing through me.

I gasp softly, my body betraying me as a shiver runs down my spine.

His smirk deepens. “Careful,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing my wrist before he finally lets go. “Wouldn’t want you to spill.”

I snatch the glass back, clutching it like a lifeline. My pulse is a wild drumbeat in my ears, my skin still burning where he touched me.

“You’re playing with fire,” I manage, my voice trembling but defiant.

“Maybe,” he says softly, his gaze locking onto mine. “But so are you, sweetheart.”

The word rolls off his tongue like a promise, like a warning, and I hate the way it makes heat coil low in my stomach.

I turn and hurry out of the kitchen, clutching my glass tightly. I don’t look back, but I can feel his eyes on me, following me all the way down the hall.

The next night, Marcus doesn’t come to bed again.

This time, I don’t go looking for him. I lie awake in the cavernous room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence. My mind replays the moment in the kitchen over and over... the brush of Luke’s fingers, the way his voice slid against my skin.

I hate it.

I hate that I can’t stop thinking about it.

When sleep finally comes, it’s restless, filled with images of smirks and tattoos and lips far too close to mine.

Days pass, each one heavier than the last. Marcus spends his time buried in work, or at least that’s what he claims. He leaves early, returns late, sometimes not at all. When he does come home, he barely looks at me. We eat dinners in silence, the clatter of cutlery louder than any words between us.

I try. God, I try. I dress up. I smile. I ask about his day. But his answers are clipped, distracted, as though I’m a duty to be checked off a list.

And all the while, Luke lingers.

He appears in the hallways, leaning against the banister with that infuriating smirk. He shows up at breakfast, stealing glances across the table that make my cheeks flush. At night, I hear him sometimes, his low laugh drifting down the corridors like smoke.

He doesn’t need to touch me again. His presence alone is enough to unravel me piece by piece.

One evening, I’m walking past Marcus’s study when I hear it... his voice, low, urgent.

The door is ajar. I pause, the sound of his words pulling me closer.

“No, don’t call me at this number,” he hisses, his tone sharp. “I told you, I’ll handle it. She doesn’t suspect a thing.”

My stomach twists. I press a hand to my mouth, my heart pounding.

There’s a pause, then his voice softens, a tone I’ve never heard him use with me. Intimate. Familiar.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

My vision blurs. The weight of his words crashes down on me, heavier than the vows I never meant, heavier than the ring on my finger.

Tomorrow night.

Another woman.

On our first week of marriage.

The glass in my hand trembles, and before I can stop it, a tear spills down my cheek, hot and bitter.