Chapter 71 – Shared Silence
The penthouse felt different that night.
Not louder.
Not colder.
Just… aware.
Amber noticed it the moment Alex disappeared down the hallway after their conversation.
No slammed doors.
No clipped instructions to staff.
No late-night calls barking orders at executives.
Just quiet.
A strange, breathing quiet that wrapped around the walls like something alive.
She hated it.
Because silence meant thinking.
And thinking meant remembering the way he'd said it.
I won't sacrifice you.
Not I can't.
Not It's bad for optics.
Won't.
Choice.
Not obligation.
Amber walked into the kitchen and poured herself sparkling water she didn't want. Her reflection in the dark glass looked unfamiliar—less sharp, less guarded.
That irritated her.
She preferred sharp.
Sharp didn't bleed.
Across the apartment, Alex stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in his study, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The city lights painted shadows across his face, carving deeper lines into his usually controlled expression.
He should have been working.
Emails. Reports. Damage control.
Instead, he stared at nothing.
The board's words replayed in his head.
She's leverage.
She's useful.
She agreed to this arrangement.
Useful.
The word sat wrong in his chest.
Amber Gareth was many things.
Difficult. Stubborn. Reckless with her mouth.
But never useful.
She wasn't an object.
She wasn't an asset.
And the idea of anyone treating her like one had triggered something primitive and immediate inside him.
Something he didn't like examining too closely.
Because it felt too much like protectiveness.
Too much like—
He stopped the thought.
A knock sounded lightly on the half-open door.
He didn't turn.
"Yes?"
Amber leaned against the frame. "You're brooding."
"I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood. It's very CEO tragic hero of you."
He glanced back at her.
She'd changed into an oversized shirt and shorts, barefoot, hair falling loose around her shoulders. Casual. Soft.
Dangerously human.
"Do you need something?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Kitchen's too quiet. Thought you might be plotting world domination in here."
"Disappointed?"
"Slightly. I expected at least three monitors and an evil laugh."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
The almost unsettled him more than anger had earlier.
She stepped inside without asking permission, wandering toward the window.
They stood side by side, city lights stretching endlessly below.
For a while, neither spoke.
No arguments.
No sarcastic jabs.
Just breathing.
Amber crossed her arms. "So… how bad was it?"
"The meeting?"
"Mm."
"A circus," he said. "They mistake fear for leadership."
"And you scared them?"
"I reminded them who built this company."
She smirked. "Translation: you demolished them."
"Something like that."
She studied him from the corner of her eye.
"You didn't have to go that hard for me," she said quietly.
"I know."
"You could've played politics. Smiled. Agreed."
"Yes."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
There it was again.
That question.
He didn't answer immediately.
Because the honest answer felt reckless.
Because the honest answer had nothing to do with strategy.
"I don't compromise on certain things," he said finally.
"Like?"
"You."
The word landed softly.
But it hit like a gunshot.
Amber blinked.
Her heartbeat stumbled, then sped up in a way she absolutely refused to acknowledge.
"Careful," she said lightly. "You're starting to sound sentimental. Very off-brand."
"Get used to disappointment."
She huffed a quiet laugh.
Then silence again.
But it wasn't uncomfortable.
It wasn't tense.
It wasn't the brittle kind they'd lived with for weeks.
It was… calm.
Like two people who didn't need to perform.
Amber slid down into the chair near the window, tucking one leg beneath her. "You ever get tired?"
"Of what?"
"Being the strongest person in every room."
He frowned slightly. "That's not how I see it."
"That's how everyone else sees it."
She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling.
"Must be exhausting. Always winning. Always composed. Never breaking."
"I break," he said quietly.
She glanced at him. "When?"
He didn't answer.
Because the last time he broke, he
he'd lost someone he loved and turned himself into stone afterward.
Because breaking had cost him everything once.
Because loving had frozen him for years.
Amber watched his silence stretch and something inside her softened without permission.
"You know," she murmured, "you don't have to be invincible all the time."
He looked at her like she'd said something foreign.
"That's not how power works," he said.
She smiled faintly. "Maybe that's your problem."
"And yours?"
"I don't let anyone see the cracks."
"So we're both hypocrites."
"Apparently."
Their eyes met.
Held.
Longer than necessary.
Too long.
The air shifted.
Amber looked away first.
"God," she muttered, standing abruptly. "This is getting weirdly emotional. I blame you."
"I'll accept the accusation."
She headed for the door, then paused.
"Hey."
He looked up.
"Thanks," she said.
"For what?"
"For not letting them treat me like a business plan."
Something warm flickered in his chest.
"Goodnight, Amber."
She nodded.
"Goodnight, Alex."
She left.
But the quiet didn't feel heavy anymore.
For the first time since the contract began, they hadn't argued.
Hadn't negotiated.
Hadn't defended themselves.
They'd just… existed together.
And that scared Amber more than any scandal ever could.
Because comfort was dangerous.
Comfort led to attachment.
And attachment—
Attachment destroyed people like her.
Across the hall, Alex remained by the window long after she'd gone.
He told himself it was just responsibility.
Just protection.
Just practicality.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
If the board ever forced him to choose between the company…
and Amber—
He already knew which one he'd burn first.
And that realization should have terrified him.
Instead—
It felt right.