I slipped beneath the covers, the sheets cool against my skin. The distance between us on the bed felt larger than the estate itself. I stared at the curve of his shoulder in the dim light, aching to reach for him, to erase what had just opened between us. But fear held me still, and pride sealed my silence.
In the quiet, I could hear his breathing—steady, measured, infuriatingly soothing. I closed my eyes, but the sound only sharpened the space between us.
And so our wedding night ended, not with passion or laughter, but with silence—two hearts beating inches apart, both too proud, too wounded, or too afraid to bridge the gap.
The dead quiet weighed heavier than sleep. I drifted in and out, never quite sinking, every rustle of sheets, every change in his breathing pulling me back from rest. Beside me, Jaxon remained still—an unmoving shape against the dim light seeping in through the curtains.
When dawn finally came, it spilled across the suite in soft, golden ribbons, catching the edge of the chandelier and scattering faint colors on the walls. It should have been beautiful, a promise of new beginnings. But to me, the light only exposed the distance on the bed—the space between us, the barrier that neither of us had dared to cross.
I turned my head to him, watching his face so peaceful in sleep, almost boyish in its peace, the weight of his name and empire momentarily stripped away. And for a fragile instant, I hoped to believe that this was who he truly was—the man who looks at me as though I were his whole world.
The loud knocking on his door startled me. Three sharp raps, brisk and precise. Jaxon stirred, his eyes opening, the peace evaporating in a blink. His gaze slid to the door, and in that moment, I saw something flicker there—something impassive, careful, almost guarded.
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and reached for his shirt. "Stay here," he said, already sliding the buttons through their holes. His voice was calm, but there was a weight in it, a firmness that made my pulse jump.
The knocking came again, harder this time.
Jaxon's jaw flexed, though his voice stayed even. "I said stay." He crossed the room in long, deliberate strides, pulling the door open just enough to slip into the hall.
I sat up, clutching the sheets against me, straining to listen. A woman's voice drifted in—low, pointed, carrying a tone of mock amusement. Laughter followed, but it wasn't soft; it was sharp, quick, the kind that cut.
Then her tone shifted, the warmth draining into steel. "You know why this marriage matters. Don't falter now."
The words cut through me like a blade.
I froze, every nerve tightening, ears straining for more. Their voices dipped into muffled edges again—hers pressing, his restrained, the cadence practiced, too practiced, like they'd danced this exchange before.
My stomach twisted. Who was she, to arrive at this hour—our first morning as husband and wife—and speak to him like that?
When the door finally clicked shut, Jaxon stepped back in. His expression was carved from stone, unreadable, but the set of his shoulders betrayed him. His jaw worked as if he were swallowing words he couldn't say.
"Just the housekeeper. Beatrice," he said, moving toward the dresser. His voice carried no warmth, only the faint tension of a man forced to use the right word at the wrong time.
The laughter outside still echoed in my head. It wasn't just noise—it carried knowing.
I lowered my gaze to my hands, twisting the sheet between my fingers. "The housekeeper," I repeated, my voice flat.
"Yes." The reply snapped out too quickly, clipped. He straightened a cuff that didn't need fixing, his back turned just enough to hide whatever flickered in his face.
Pressure built beneath my ribs. "She laughs with you like that often?"
His brow lifted, a flicker of irritation, but behind it—something else. His gaze skated away, then locked back onto me, steadier than before. "Like what?"
"Like she knows you too well."
Jaxon exhaled through his nose, the sound tight. His jaw clenched once before he forced his voice into control. "Brianna, you're reaching. It was a routine exchange. Nothing more."
"Routine?" The word slipped sharp from my lips. "On our first morning as husband and wife, a woman's laughter outside our door—and I'm supposed to think nothing of it?"
He didn't answer right away. His eyes caught mine, unreadable, but in the stillness between us his hand curled into a fist at his side—tension breaking through the mask. Then, just as quickly, his expression smoothed, and he turned away.
"Yes. Because there is nothing to think of." He said softly
That calmness cut more than anger would have. He wasn't shaken. He wasn't defensive. He was dismissing me, folding my fears into shadows as though they didn't matter.
I pulled the sheet tighter around me, my insides knotted. "You expect me to just trust blindly? To pretend I don't see cracks already forming?"
His eyes locked on mine, steady but unreadable. "I expect you to trust me. Or else this marriage won't survive its first sunrise."
The words lodged into me, sharp and final. My ribs cinched tight, but I forced my voice steady. "That sounds less like a promise and more like a threat."
Something flickered across his face then—pain, maybe frustration—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He shook his head, as though weighing every word before he spoke. "It's the truth. Trust is the only foundation we have. Without it, all of this—" his hand swept lightly toward the walls, the bed, the very house surrounding us, "—means nothing."
I wanted to argue. To push him. To demand he understand that trust wasn't something I could summon with a snap of my fingers. His voice held a trace of anger, but it was his unwavering certainty that was harder to fight. The air turned heavy inside me. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple," he said quietly, though his jaw tightened. "You're the one making it complicated."
His measured voice hurt more than any raised voice."
it was as though my doubts were childish, small disruptions in his otherwise perfect world. And maybe they were. But to me, they were storms.
I rolled to the side, facing away. "You wouldn't understand," I whispered.
His breath hitched. "Try me," he murmured, voice low, almost rough. The words scraped along my skin.
A shiver ran down my spine as his hand hovered near mine, then pressed gently, coaxing, daring. My breath caught, as if gripped by invisible hands. Desire throbbed between us, raw and insistent. He leaned closer, warm and steady, pressing into the curve of my back. My breath hitched. Fingers trembled against the sheet. His lips grazed my ear, low and teasing. He paused a heartbeat from my shoulder, and the air between us ignited. Every nerve screamed, every pulse hammered. I yearned to lean into him, to close the distance, yet my mind froze in the tension, caught between fear and longing. His whisper grazed my neck, unspoken words urging me closer.
"I…" I faltered, voice a whisper.
"Shh," he said, lips grazing my ear. "I've got you."