Chapter One

Elara's pov

In the vast silence of the dining room, the silk of my emerald dress whispered against my legs, a gentle, mocking sound. I chose this color because six months prior, Adrian had given me a three-second gaze that was longer than usual and said that it suited me. For six months, I lived for those three seconds.

I moved the crystal water goblet just a little bit to the left. Everything had to be flawless. It was our first anniversary today, 365 days after I had walked down the aisle of St. George's, filled with a terrifying, innocent hope that I could be the warmth to melt the ice of the Kingsley legacy.

The grandfather clock in the entry chimed nine o'clock. Following that, ten.

The roasted lamb on the table was now a corpse rather than a dish. The rosemary infused juice had solidified into a drab, gray layer. As Victoria had instructed me, I kept my posture impeccable at the head of the table. "A Kingsley woman never slouches, Elara. Even when she is alone. Especially then. “

I reasoned that I wasn't by myself… I was simply waiting.

The front door made a loud thump that reverberated throughout the house at 10:14 p. m. My heart flipped over, acting treacherous and anxious. I almost knocked over my wine when I stood up too quickly. I tried to smile after smoothing my hair and looking at my reflection in the gloomy window.

The chilly night air lingered on Adrian's black overcoat as he entered. At first, he didn't notice me. His brow was furrowed in that acute, focused V, which generally indicates that someone is about to lose their job, and his phone was held up to his ear.

"Marcus, I don't care about the Tokyo opening," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that never failed to make the hair on my arms stand on end. We withdraw if the margins are not at 5%. By six, I want the contracts on my desk.

At last, he glanced in my direction. The remnants of the ruined dinner, the flickering candles, and my dress were all scanned by his eyes, which were the hue of a winter sea. There was no acknowledgement. No Happy Anniversary. He squinted his eyes only a little, as if he were trying to recall why I was standing in the dark.

He motioned for me to wait by raising one finger.

I waited. I had learned to be patient. He destroyed a competing company over the phone for an additional eight minutes as I stood there. After he eventually hung up, he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He questioned, "Why are the lights so dim? " It's disheartening.

“It's our anniversary, Adrian.” Even to my own ears, my voice seemed weak. “A year.”

He paused. His silk tie was still half-undone as his hand remained there. The emotion that crossed his face wasn't guilt; rather, it was possibly the impatience of a man who had missed a small meeting.

“The anniversary," he repeated. "I'll have my assistant call the jeweler tomorrow. You should have mentioned you wanted something specific."

​"I didn't want a piece of jewelry from your assistant," I said, stepping into the candlelight. "I made dinner. I thought we could just be... us. For one night."

Adrian approached me. The metallic tang of London rain combined with the costly aroma of sandalwood gave him a distinct scent. His hand reached out and caressed my chin. As if he were examining me, he traced my lower lip with his thumb.

“Elara, you look gorgeous,” he whispered, his gaze already lost in space. “It's late, though. After a difficult day, I have a board meeting first thing in the morning.”

"The lamb is cold," I whispered, my eyes stinging. "I waited three hours."

"Then don't wait," he said, his voice deepening an octave and turning into that silky, menacing velvet. I give you a life that most women would murder for so that you don't have to stand over a hot stove. That is entirely your decision if you choose to do it. However, please don't let your hobbies become a burden to me.

​A hobby. My marriage, my effort to love him, was a hobby.

“I'm your wife, Adrian. Not a tenant."

​

He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "You are a Kingsley. That means you understand that our lives are governed by duty, not sentiment. Go upstairs. I’ll be up once I’ve cleared my inbox."

​He didn't kiss me. He simply released my face and headed toward his study.

The silence in the gloomy dining room was more oppressive than before. I didn't shed a tear. I was unable to. I rather went to the table and blew out the candles. I saw the small plumes of smoke vanish into the darkness one at a time.

I went upstairs and rubbed the odor of the kitchen off my flesh until it was red. I changed into a nightgown made of transparent silk, another “ adequate" purchase and lay in the center of our king-sized bed.

An hour later, the room was completely dark when the door at last opened. Adrian did not switch on the lights. He removed his clothing in the darkness, moving with a silent, predatory elegance. As he got into bed, the mattress squealed under his weight.

He said nothing. He didn't inquire about my day. He merely grabbed me, pulling my back against his chest. His skin was warm, in stark contrast to the chilliness of his speech.

With a recognizable, possessive assurance, his hands dominated, gliding across my curves. With his breath tickling my skin, he buried his face in the hollow of my neck. It was practically possible to imagine that he loved me in the darkness.

With my fingers grasping his shoulders, I flipped in his arms in an attempt to find some sign of the person behind the device. I gave him a kiss with a silent desperation, attempting to express everything I couldn't say through the pressure of my lips. See me. Please, just once, look at me and see a person, not a position.

Adrian let out a low groan and wrapped his arm around my waist. Although he was there, responding to my body, I still experienced the well-known pain of being utilized without being understood as he moved with a measured, rhythmic passion.

After it was over, he rolled away. His breathing quickly settled into the slow, regular rhythm of sleep.

I couldn't sleep and simply gazed at the elaborate crown molding on the ceiling. At the age of 24, I was married to a billionaire and felt the least seen I'd ever felt in my life.

I reminded myself to be patient. Like ivy on stone, I reasoned that love takes time to develop. I was unaware that ivy eventually kills anything it clings to.