Chapter 13 : The Silence Between Screams
The night air in Los Angeles was colder than usual, as if the city itself had paused to listen. Somewhere far below the penthouse suite of Knight Towers, the streets buzzed in their usual chaos—sirens, engines, footsteps lost in crowds. But here, in this impossibly silent sky-high cage, Elena Whitmore stood still, staring at the closed double doors that Adrian had exited through.
She hadn't moved.
She couldn't.
Her lungs forgot how to breathe the moment his words landed, echoing in her ears long after he was gone. "You want war, Elena? You've got it."
The chill wasn't just from the air. It was him. The way he'd looked at her—like she'd betrayed him, like she was just another pawn in his ever-growing battlefield.
But hadn't she always been?
Her fingers clutched the fabric of her silk robe tighter around her, the same robe he had thrown on her body hours ago, after undressing her like he was tearing pages from a book he didn't want to read—just burn.
She moved finally, almost robotic, her bare feet touching the cold floor as she walked to the vanity. Her reflection stared back—eyes rimmed red, lips bruised from both passion and rage. Her skin glowed with defiance and something darker. Shame, maybe. Regret. A storm she refused to name.
She touched her collarbone where his mouth had branded her earlier.
Her body belonged to him now. Her choices, reduced to signatures and threats.
And still, she'd dared to challenge him.
"You're not afraid of me," he had said, earlier that evening. And she hadn't been. Not until now.
Because Adrian Knight had stopped pretending.
He wasn't her savior. He wasn't even her captor anymore. He had turned into something else entirely—something colder, calculated, lethal.
And she was still here.
Still tied to him by contract, by desire, by vengeance.
"Get out of your head," she whispered to herself, dragging a comb through her tangled hair. "Don't give him your fear. That's what he feeds on."
But the trembling of her hand betrayed her.
A knock shattered the silence.
Not loud. Not impatient.
Soft. Timed.
Her heart stuttered.
It wasn't Adrian. He never knocked. He stormed. He shattered.
She opened the door a crack.
"Miss Whitmore," came a quiet voice. It was Maria, the head of housekeeping—always gentle, always with her eyes lowered like she worked in a palace from another century.
"There's... a letter for you."
Elena frowned. "A letter?"
Maria nodded and handed her a sealed envelope with no name on it. Just a wax seal. Black. Thick. Unmistakably his.
Adrian's.
With a nod, Maria vanished as quickly as she appeared.
Elena stared at the letter, hands suddenly clammy. Her breath faltered again.
Why a letter? He was in the same building. He could bark orders face-to-face.
With trembling fingers, she broke the seal.
Elena,
You want to play with power, understand its weight? Be ready by 8. Black dress. No questions. I'll collect you.
—Adrian.
Short. Sharp. Cold.
And a black dress? Like this was some date night?
Anger bloomed in her chest again. That was the thing with Adrian Knight—he gave you no time to heal, no space to escape. He uprooted you just when you thought you'd planted your feet.
She looked at the clock.
7:12 PM.
Damn him.
She dressed like she was armoring up for battle. The black dress was skin-tight, velvet, long-sleeved, off-shoulder. The kind that screamed elegance and screamed louder when ripped off. Her heels clicked like weapons against the marble floor as she made her way to the elevator.
When the doors opened, he was already there.
Waiting.
Leaning casually against the side, dressed in all black—shirt unbuttoned just enough, watch gleaming like a weapon. He didn't say anything. Just held out his hand.
She hesitated.
Then placed hers in his.
It was warm. Steady.
A lie.
The drive was silent. The city lights passed in a blur, but Elena felt every second like a countdown.
"Where are we going?" she asked finally.
He didn't look at her. "To see what power costs."
Cryptic. As always.
He didn't speak again until they arrived.
The car pulled into the underground level of what looked like a members-only club. No name on the building. Just black walls, tall doors, velvet ropes. Two men in suits scanned Adrian's face and opened the doors immediately.
Inside, the music pulsed slow and low. Not a club. Not a restaurant. Something darker.
Women in gowns. Men in tuxedos. Champagne trays. A place where business was spoken in whispers and secrets were currency.
Elena clung to Adrian's side as he walked through like a king in his own palace. Everyone seemed to know him.
"Adrian Knight," one older man said, clinking his glass. "Always a pleasure. And this must be…"
Adrian's hand tightened slightly around Elena's waist.
"My wife."
Wife.
The word landed like a bullet.
He didn't look at her when he said it. Didn't even pause.
It wasn't for her.
It was for them.
To show them she belonged to him. That she wasn't some deal or escort. She was his.
A possession.
Elena smiled anyway.
Let them think she was loyal. Let them think she was obedient.
Let them underestimate her.
They walked deeper into the maze of chandeliers and cigar smoke until Adrian guided her into a private lounge. Low light. One massive fireplace. And three men already waiting.
One of them was her father's business rival—Mikhail Drayev.
Elena's blood turned to ice.
Adrian took a seat across from them. Pulled her gently to sit beside him.
"Let's talk debt," Adrian said calmly.
Mikhail smirked. "This about Whitmore? I thought you'd crushed him already."
"Not enough," Adrian said, sipping his drink. "But this… this is about legacy."
Elena's heart raced.
This wasn't a dinner.
This was a war table.
And she was a bargaining chip again.
Or a weapon.
She didn't know which was worse.
"You brought her to watch?" Mikhail asked, glancing at Elena.
"No," Adrian said. "I brought her to learn."
And just like that, the night became a lesson in power.
Contracts signed with handshakes and veiled threats. Promises made in bloodless smiles. Elena watched it all, eyes wide but spine straight.
Hours passed like minutes.
When it ended, Adrian guided her back to the car. Neither spoke.
When they reached the tower, he didn't take her to her suite.
He took her to his.
"I'm not sleeping with you tonight," she said the moment they stepped inside.
He turned to her. "I didn't ask you to."
Silence.
He poured himself a drink. Sat down.
Then, after a pause, he looked at her.
"You did well tonight."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You held your own. Didn't flinch. Didn't look weak. That matters."
She should've been proud. But all she felt was hollow.
"I'm not your weapon, Adrian."
"No," he said quietly. "You're the cost."
She stared.
"What does that mean?"
He downed the drink.
"It means... I already made the biggest mistake of my life once. I loved someone. And she died because I believed love would protect her."
The words hit her like cold water.
He never talked about his past. Never.
"Is that why you're like this?" she whispered.
His gaze lifted. Dark. Unreadable.
"No, Elena. That's why you'll never love me. And why I'll never ask you to."
She stepped back.
Something broke inside her at that moment.
Not because she wanted love.
But because for a second, she believed he might be capable of it.
Now she knew better.
: Elena walks away from him that night—but finds her old phone hidden in the drawer of her new room… with an anonymous message that reads: "You don't know what he's really done."
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Reader Questions:
1. Do you think Adrian truly can't love—or is he just too broken to try?
2. What do you think Elena will do with that mysterious message?
3. Should Elena confront Adrian about the past… or keep digging in secret?