Chapter 11: In the Garden (continued)

She wasn’t made of stone.

She felt his eyes from that window. Felt the tension in every room they occupied together. But she had learned long ago that survival didn’t come from reacting. It came from control. Of posture. Of breath. Of silence.

The fountain gurgled softly behind her, its delicate splashes an odd contrast to the storm brooding in the mansion behind her. Luna took a steadying breath and reached up to unclasp the pearl pin in her hair, letting it fall with graceful finality into her palm. The twist unraveled, dark strands slipping free and swaying in the soft summer breeze.

There was something oddly symbolic in that motion.

Freedom disguised in femininity.

She didn’t turn to look up at the window, though she could feel his gaze press into her like a weight. She let him watch. Let him guess.

Let him stew in the silence he had created.

George wondered how someone would have so much composure, however he couldn't keep watching because he was starting to hate it so he left for his study room.

Inside, George’s grip on the crystal tumbler tightened.

That simple act of her letting down her hair made his chest constrict. Not with desire, though that was always simmering around her. No, this was worse. It was the helpless ache of watching something slip through your fingers while you pretended you never wanted to hold it in the first place.

He thought he had married a woman who would play by the rules. Who would take the money, follow instructions, and not challenge him.

Instead, he got Luna Hayes.

Beautiful, enigmatic, infuriating Luna—who obeyed without yielding, who spoke without answering, and who wore silence like armor sharper than any sword.

His phone buzzed on the desk.

A message from Harold, his lawyer:

“The press is picking up inconsistencies. We need a public stance on the wife situation. Damage control is urgent or better still a proper divorce.”

George deleted the message without replying.

He was tired of being told what to do by the media, by his board, and now, by her unspoken dominance and he hated it more that he doesn't even know what to do.

How had this gotten so out of hand?

The thought of the situation kept him in his study for so long that he lost track of time.

Later That Night

The estate felt too large for two people.

Evening cast long shadows across the marble halls. Luna’s heels echoed faintly as she returned from the garden and ascended the staircase. When she reached the guest room door, she paused then, almost impulsively, turned and walked toward the master bedroom.

She knocked once.

No answer.

She opened the door anyway.

George was inside, seated at the edge of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled. He looked less like the CEO of a powerful conglomerate and more like a man unraveling at the seams.

He looked up as she entered, and for once, there was no mask. Just something raw. Tired. Human.

“I’m not here to fight,” she said softly.

“I didn’t think you were,” he replied, voice hoarse.

Luna moved to the dresser and poured him a glass of water, placing it beside him without a word. He didn’t touch it, just stared at her hand—still resting lightly on the glass like it was a question he didn’t know how to answer.

“I’m not trying to win,” she said after a long pause. “Despite what you think.”

George looked up sharply. “Aren’t you?”

She let out a quiet laugh. “You think everything is a game, George. A war. A chessboard.”

“That’s because it usually is.”

“But marriage isn’t,” she said, her voice suddenly colder. “At least, not one where people actually live in it.”

He rose, stepping closer. “You make it sound like this was my design alone.”

She met his gaze without flinching. “Wasn’t it?”

Silence.

His jaw clenched, but his voice dropped to a whisper. “You were supposed to stay in the lines.”

“And you were supposed to draw them clearly.”

That landed.

He looked away first.

The air between them hung heavy with words they hadn’t said.

Not about the real wife he hadn’t divorced.

Not about the woman he now lived with, married in title but not in truth.

Not about the moments—the glances, the silences, the unspoken resentment—that had begun to pull them closer even as it tore them apart.

“I don’t hate you, George,” she said, surprising even herself.

He turned back to her slowly. “You don’t?”

“I pity you,” she said softly. “Because you don’t even see what you’re losing.”

His voice was hollow. “What am I losing?”

“Something real. Something honest.”

She moved toward the door, but he called after her. “Luna.”

She stopped.

His next words were quiet. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Her back still turned, she whispered, “Then stop trying to control it.”

And then she left.