The mansion was quieter than usual that evening. The soft clinks of cutlery against china barely echoed in the grand dining hall, where Aurora sat across from Adrian, picking at her food in silence. The chandelier above them cast golden light across the table, but it couldn't thaw the coldness hanging in the air. Since their last argument, a heavy wall of tension had grown between them. Words had been spoken—some cruel, some impulsive—and neither had the courage to apologize. Aurora stared at her untouched plate, her appetite long gone. Adrian cut into his steak with sharp precision, the sound slicing the quiet like a knife. It was always like this now—meals eaten with distance, conversations filled with only the necessary words, and eyes that refused to meet. Still, something shifted that evening. A storm brewed outside, soft thunder murmuring through the windows. Aurora, braver in the presence of uncertainty, finally lifted her gaze.
"You're not eating," Adrian said, his voice unreadable.
"Neither are you," she replied quietly, finally setting down her fork.
Their eyes met, and the silence between them took on a different weight. Not anger. Not resentment. Just the echo of things left unsaid. Adrian leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying her like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve.
"You hate being here," he said after a pause, and it wasn't a question.
Aurora didn't flinch. "I feel invisible in this house. Like I'm just a placeholder until the real bride arrives."
His jaw tightened. "There is no other bride, Aurora."
"Then why does it feel like I'm temporary?" she asked, her voice cracking. "Like I'm a part of some business deal that you're obligated to endure."
Adrian stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the marble. For a moment, she thought he would leave again, disappear into his office like he always did. But he didn't. Instead, he walked around the table, stopping beside her. She didn't look up. She didn't want him to see the glassiness in her eyes.
"I don't hate you," he said finally.
Aurora blinked, surprised. "You don't act like it."
"I don't know how to act around you," he confessed. "You're not what I expected."
She turned to him slowly. "And what exactly did you expect?"
He hesitated, and then said, "Compliance. Distance. A woman who understood the rules and followed them."
"I'm not a rule you can manage, Adrian," she whispered. "I'm a person. One who wakes up every morning wondering why she agreed to a marriage where silence speaks louder than love."
Adrian's expression softened. It was the first time she had seen his mask truly crack. He reached out, slowly, his fingers brushing against hers on the table. It was barely a touch, but to her, it felt like a bridge across a chasm.
"Why did you agree?" he asked, voice low.
She pulled her hand back, gently. "Because I thought it would protect my family. Because I thought I could do it. But mostly," she added, looking into his eyes, "I thought you'd try."
His eyes darkened with emotion she couldn't name. "And I didn't?"
"You never even gave me a chance. You made up your mind about me before the ink on the contract dried."
Adrian ran a hand through his hair, stepping back like her words physically struck him. "You don't know what I've been through, Aurora."
"Then tell me!" she said, rising to her feet. "Tell me why you keep shutting me out, locking yourself in your past like it's the only truth that matters."
He didn't speak. His jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists, and his gaze drifted to the storm dancing outside the window. Thunder growled again, louder this time, and lightning illuminated the tension between them. Finally, he spoke.
"My father wasn't the kind of man you trusted with love," he said, his voice a whisper. "He loved my mother with obsession, with control. And when she tried to leave, he made sure she never could."
Aurora's heart sank. "What happened to her?"
"She died in that mansion. Not because of an illness. Because she lost the will to live."
Adrian's voice broke slightly, and Aurora saw it—real pain, raw and unfiltered, etched into his face. Not the cold CEO. Not the calculated businessman. Just a man carrying too much history in silence.
"And now you think love is a trap," she said gently.
"I know it is," he replied.
Aurora stepped closer. "I'm not your father, Adrian. And you're not him either. You're allowed to love without becoming a monster."
He looked at her like she was offering him something he didn't believe he deserved. His eyes shimmered with something fragile. Maybe hope. Maybe fear.
"I don't know how to do this," he said honestly. "How to let someone close."
"You start small," she said. "Like… talking during dinner. Like telling me when something hurts. Like not shutting me out."
They stood there in the quiet that followed, thunder softening in the distance. The tension hadn't vanished, but it had shifted, replaced with something tentative. Aurora reached for his hand again, and this time, he didn't flinch.
"I'm not asking you to love me today," she said. "But if we're going to survive this, we both have to stop pretending we're not already affected."
He nodded slowly, gripping her hand tighter.
"I'll try," he said.
It was the most human thing he had said since their wedding day. And in that moment, despite all the wounds and silence, Aurora believed he meant it.
That night, they didn't eat dinner. Instead, they sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket of unspoken understanding, and watched the storm pass outside. No more silence, no more cold walls. Just two people trying to unlearn the loneliness they'd grown too comfortable with.
And in the stillness of that shared moment, something fragile and new began to bloom.