Chapter 9: A marriage of silence

Nathan had already driven the car out from the garage and was waiting right in front of the hall. He hadn’t fully grasped what had just happened, but from the tense atmosphere inside, he knew this wasn’t the moment to ask his boss any questions.

So, he did what he knew best: he minded his business and focused on his job.

Adjusting the rear view mirror slightly, Nathan caught a glimpse of George and the woman walking toward the car. George, typically composed and unreadable, looked unusually rigid. His steps were measured, like a man walking into a battlefield rather than toward his vehicle.

Nathan's gaze flicked to the woman beside him. She was too calm. Her expression gave nothing away, her eyes fixed ahead as if she’d trained herself not to acknowledge the man beside her. There was no trace of warmth, no post-wedding glow. Only cold composure.

George did something Nathan had never seen before he opened the door for her. She stepped inside silently, the soft rustle of her wedding dress brushing against the leather seat. No eye contact. No words.

Nathan cleared his throat and murmured, “Congratulations, sir,” not turning around.

“Drive,” came George’s clipped reply.

The engine hummed to life, filling the car with a subtle tension. Nathan checked the mirror again. They sat like strangers, no touch, no glances. Just a thick, stifling silence.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Something about this felt deeply wrong.

Who was she? What had just happened inside that hall? Was this an arranged marriage? A business deal? Or one of those cold high-society unions where appearances mattered more than emotions?

Again, he reminded himself it wasn’t his business. He was the driver. Not the friend. And George Knights wasn’t someone you questioned.

As they exited the compound, flashes of camera lights burst behind them, the paparazzi already circling. Within hours, the headlines would be everywhere.

And yet, nothing about the back seat felt remotely like a honeymoon.

Nathan exhaled quietly and focused on the road. Whatever this was, it wasn’t love.

But it was something.

And it was only the beginning.

---

George stepped out of the car first, his polished shoes crunching against the gravel of the estate’s private driveway. The mansion stood before them—grand and imposing—but tonight, it felt hollow.

He didn’t wait for her.

He couldn’t.

Not out of anger or pride, but because he simply didn’t know how to face her—not yet.

Nathan closed the door behind Luna as she stepped out. She didn’t look around or react to the luxury around her. No curiosity. No awe. She simply followed George into the house, her footsteps quiet and deliberate.

Inside, silence greeted them. George had already dismissed the staff earlier. The last thing he needed were prying eyes and whispers.

At the foot of the stairs, he hesitated, tempted to say something. But no words came. So he turned and ascended the stairs, leaving her behind without a backward glance.

She didn’t follow.

Good.

He needed space. A few minutes to think. To breathe. To understand what the hell he had just done.

Upstairs, the hallway stretched ahead—dimly lit, sterile, full of framed photographs and abstract art. He had always preferred clean, emotionless design.

But when he opened the bedroom door, something shifted.

A scent.

Soft. Feminine. Floral with a citrus edge.

Jasmine. Luna.

He froze.

As he stepped into the room, confusion turned to disbelief. The wardrobe. The vanity. All changed.

Emily’s things—gone.

In their place were unfamiliar garments: elegant dresses, robes, delicate lingerie. A bottle of perfume sat on the dresser—her scent lingering in the air like a whisper.

He pulled the wardrobe doors wide open, scanning the hangers in disbelief.

How did she move all of this in? When? Why?

He hadn’t told her to move in. Hadn’t given her a room. This marriage was supposed to be formal, professional. A paper arrangement. Not this. Not… personal.

He sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. The air felt tighter than usual, heavier. Luna had infiltrated his space.

And he didn’t know how to feel about that.

---

Downstairs, Luna stood still in the grand foyer. She didn’t look around, didn’t comment on the size of the house or the silence hanging in the air.

She just stood.

Unmoving.

She had walked into this marriage with no illusions. No expectations. Only purpose.

With calm steps, she walked toward the drawing room. The scent of wealth clung to the air—leather, aged wood, and something colder. She paused beside a photo frame.

George and a woman. Soft-featured. Laughing.

Emily.

She didn’t touch the photo. Didn’t frown. She simply stared, then turned away.

She wasn’t here to replace anyone.

She was here to play her part.

Turning away from the grand staircase, she walked toward the guest wing. Her instincts told her not to cross boundaries that hadn’t been offered.

Not yet.

---

George poured himself a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid trembled slightly in his hand.

He pulled open his bedside drawer, retrieving the contract they had signed just days ago.

Clause 12. No emotional entanglement.

Clause 13. No interference in personal routines.

Clause 15. Cohabitation optional unless publicly required.

He was still glaring at Clause 15 when the door creaked open.

He didn’t turn right away.

But the sound of footsteps, soft and certain, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Luna walked in like she owned the space.

No hesitation.

She went straight to the wardrobe, her back to him.

Without a word, she unzipped her gown.

The fabric slipped to the floor in one smooth motion, revealing her bare back in the soft light.

George choked on air and spun around, facing the opposite wall.

“What the fuck are you doing, Luna?”

Her voice was calm, unwavering.

“I suggest you go over the contract again,” she said. “Clearly, you missed a part.”

He didn’t move.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” he hissed, his voice low with fury.

“Oh?” she mused, reaching for a robe and sliding it over her shoulders. “Clause fifteen. You remember it, don’t you? 'Cohabitation optional unless publicly required.'”

She turned to face him now, robe loosely tied at her waist, her eyes sharp. “Well, George… our wedding photos are already trending. The board will expect us to live together. To act married. And that includes… appearances.”

He clenched his jaw. “That doesn’t give you the right to invade my space.”

“I didn’t invade,” she replied smoothly. “I adapted. Isn’t that what this arrangement is about?”

He took a step closer, eyes blazing. “You didn’t have to strip in front of me.”

Her lips curled faintly. “Why? Were you tempted?”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped past him, her voice soft but firm. “I’m not here to seduce you, George. I’m here to follow the contract. And I will. Just don’t mistake my silence for weakness.”

With that, she left—quiet, calm, untouchable. Her scent lingered in the air.

George remained frozen.

And in that silence, one thing became painfully clear:

He had married a woman more dangerous than he ever expected.

Not because she broke the rules.

But because she knew exactly how to use them.