Chapter 18: Beneath her Armor

The hallway lights were dimmed, casting long shadows against the marble floor as George made his way up the staircase. The estate was eerily silent. No kitchen lights. No quiet clinks of teacups. No soft rustling from the garden where Luna often sat in the evenings, half-lost in thought.

It unsettled him.

He had grown used to her presence, not in a comforting way, but like the cold hum of electricity always there, always buzzing beneath the surface. Quiet but potent.

But tonight, the silence wasn’t just absence.

It felt like disappearance.

He checked the garden first. Empty. The study? Dark. Her shoes were at the door, her scent faint in the air. She was home but she wasn’t anywhere she should be.

That’s when his steps pulled him toward the guest wing. Her claimed territory.

His fingers brushed the doorknob.

Half of him expected silence.

The other half? He wasn’t sure.

But he pushed the door open quietly.

And paused.

She was already asleep.

That alone made his chest tighten.

In the weeks they’d lived under the same roof this cold, calculated contract binding them like strangers in silk and strategy he had never once seen her fall asleep this early. Not Luna.

She was always awake. Always alert. Guarded. Sharp.

But tonight… she looked undone.

Her back was turned slightly, one arm curled beneath the pillow. Her silk robe clung loosely to her frame, and the moonlight slicing through the curtains touched her bare shoulder like a soft spotlight.

George stepped in quietly, the door closing behind him with a muted click.

He didn’t speak.

Just stood there.

Watching.

She breathed steadily at first. But then he saw it.

A tear.

Sliding silently across her cheek, vanishing into the pillowcase.

Then another.

And then the trembling began soft at first. Her fingers clenched into the fabric. Her breath hitched. Her sharp-featured face twisted ever so slightly, as though pain was threading its way through her dreams.

George’s brows furrowed.

It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t just stress.

This was fear.

Raw. Real. And terrifyingly human.

The kind of fear that left bruises beneath the skin long after the threat had passed.

He’d seen enough of it to know the difference.

She always looked like a woman carved from grace and steel. Composed even under fire. But here… stripped of her war paint, asleep and unaware…

She looked fragile.

Haunted.

It disarmed him.

He had come here with business in mind. He wanted to make sure she got the statement from his PR team. To let her know the damage control plan was holding, that the gala spin was working, that her idea—co-hosting to redirect the narrative was, frankly, brilliant.

She had done what even he hadn’t thought to do.

She had owned the scandal.

Twisted the mess into momentum.

He had planned to tell her that. It wasn’t a compliment—it was a rare truth. She deserved to know she’d made something burn brighter instead of burning down.

But now…

All of that seemed irrelevant.

He watched her fingers twitch again then curl back into stillness.

Whatever war she had fought during the day, it was nothing compared to the one happening now, behind closed eyes and beneath trembling breath.

He took a slow step forward.

Then another.

Drawn in, against his own will.

His hand almost lifted to touch her shoulder, to wake her, to hold her.

But he stopped.

Because that would be crossing a line.

Wouldn’t it?

This marriage wasn’t built for comfort. It wasn’t made for moments like this. And he had made damn sure of that.

Still, something in his chest ached.

He didn't like it.

That she looked like someone who had no one.

That she looked like this in his house and never said a word.

He glanced around her room.

Everything was in place. Neat. Clinical, almost.

And that’s when he realized—there were no photos. No keepsakes. No clutter. No fragments of personality.

Just silence dressed as order.

And for the first time since this arrangement began, George wondered what she was running from?

Because this… this wasn’t how someone lived. This was how someone survived.

He shifted his gaze back to her.

Her lips were parted slightly, her breath beginning to return to rhythm. But the pillow beneath her was damp. Her brows still furrowed in pain even as sleep dragged her deeper.

He didn't wake her.

Didn't speak.

But he did what he hadn’t done in years.

He stayed.

Not long. Barely five minutes. But he stayed.

His presence filled the silence, even if she couldn’t feel it.

And when he turned to leave, he placed the folder—the PR statement and final media plan on her desk. But before he let go, he pulled a pen from his inner jacket pocket and wrote on the last page.

“The media team was impressed with the gala strategy. It was effective. Well played. – GKH”

It wasn’t warm.

Not exactly.

But for a man like George Knights Hayes, it was close.

He left the room as quietly as he entered, closing the door behind him.

But sleep didn’t come easy that night.

Later That Night – George’s Study

George poured a second glass of whiskey but didn’t drink it. He sat behind his desk, staring at nothing.

His phone buzzed—Nathan again, likely with updates about the board’s reaction or the remaining fallout from the gala scandal.

He silenced it.

Instead, his mind drifted back to that room. To Luna’s tears. To the trembling.

To how wrong it looked on her.

Or maybe… How revealing.

She had fought every moment of this marriage with such cold grace. She never cracked, never asked questions, never demanded more than the minimum. Even when the world turned on her, she stood like someone used to the storm.

Now he knew why.

She wasn’t just strong.

She was practicing.

And whatever trained her into silence wasn’t politics or ambition.

It was pain.

Real, old, and buried deep.

He leaned back in his chair, jaw tight.

This wasn’t part of the plan. He didn’t care about her past—or at least he told himself that. He had married her for image, control, and calculated convenience. Not complications.

But here she was.

Complicating everything.

Because now… he couldn't unsee it.

Meanwhile – In Her Dreams

Luna twisted under the sheets, body recoiling even in sleep.

Dark hands gripped her memory.

A voice from the past cold and poisonous ripped through her subconscious.

“You thought I wouldn’t find you?”

She gasped, even in the dream, but her mouth produced no sound.

The shadows closed in.

Doors slammed behind her. Her name rang through empty halls. A hotel lobby blurred into a police report. Her mother’s face—pale, tear-streaked—flickered in and out of view.

Then it all faded.

Into silence.

Into breath.

Into the echo of a door that had once opened… and closed again.

---

Early Morning

The sun spilled into her room in pale sheets.

Luna stirred slowly, eyes fluttering open.

Her throat was dry. Her body ached—not from sleep, but from what it carried through the night.

She sat up.

Something felt… off.

Not just her body. The room.

She looked toward the desk.

The folder.

She frowned.

It hadn’t been there last night.

She rose slowly, bare feet touching the floor like she expected it to break beneath her.

She walked to the desk, opened the folder.

PR statements. Damage control outlines. Talking points for press interviews.

And at the bottom—his handwriting.

“The media team was impressed with the gala strategy. It was effective. Well played. – GKH”

Her breath caught.

He had been here.

He saw her.

She stepped back, as if distance could erase the vulnerability that now hung in the air.

She felt exposed.

But more than that… she felt watched.

Not in fear.

In something else.

Something she wasn’t ready to name.

Luna drew in a breath and composed herself.

Because whatever emotional crack she’d unknowingly shown, she couldn’t afford to repeat it.

Not again.

Not here.