Lucas stood in front of her door with the tray balanced in one hand. For a long second, he didn't move—his jaw tight, his posture rigid, the weight of conflicted emotions tightening his shoulders. Then he raised his hand and knocked, a firm yet controlled tap that echoed softly in the quiet hallway.
He didn't wait for her response.
His fingers turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.
The moment the door creaked, Amara turned her head slightly. It was the first time she had seen him in nearly twenty-four hours—after almost eight days of constant encounters, heated words, tension, arguments, sarcasm, and unpredictable exchanges. Today marked the first day she had gone the entire day without speaking to him.
And now, seeing him standing there, still in his office clothes, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, something strange flickered inside her chest. A mild gust of sea breeze drifted in through the open balcony door, lifting a few strands of her hair as she looked at him.
Lucas's expression remained unreadable.
He finally broke the silence, his tone cold and even.
"I brought food."
He walked forward without waiting for her acknowledgement and placed the tray gently on the table. The sound of the ceramic bowls touching the wooden surface felt louder than it should have in the stillness of the room.
Silence settled again.
A heavy, odd silence that neither of them knew how to navigate.
Lucas, visibly uncomfortable with the lack of conversation, stood there for a few seconds, then exhaled quietly.
"Let us start eating," he said, picking up his bowl.
Amara gave a slight nod. Barely noticeable, but it was enough. She sat at the opposite end of the table and began eating in small, quiet bites, keeping her gaze fixed on her bowl.
Lucas ate quickly. Too quickly. As if the silence was something he needed to get through, not something he could sit within. He finished in just a few gulps, while Amara had barely begun.
He placed his bowl down, wiped his hands, and leaned back slightly. His eyes moved to her—observing her posture, her expression, the tension in her shoulders.
He tried speaking again.
"How is your bruise?"
Her spoon paused for half a second before she answered in the calmest, shortest tone possible."Better."
Lucas nodded, though the clipped reply didn't satisfy him. He tried again.
"Did you apply the ointment?"
"Yes."
Another one-word reply. Formal. Polite. Distant.
He tried once more, though a hint of irritation crept into his voice."I hope nobody disturbed you."
"No."
Her responses were quiet but firm. She was answering—just enough to avoid appearing rude, but not enough to reveal anything. She wasn't meeting his eyes. She wasn't challenging him. She wasn't asking questions. She wasn't telling him she hated being confined indoors. She wasn't arguing like she used to.
She was simply complying.
And for some reason Lucas didn't understand—it bothered him.
He watched her for a long moment, brows furrowing ever so slightly. Her shoulders were drawn in, her posture closed off, her tone formal—almost as if she were speaking to a stranger.
He didn't like it.He didn't know why he didn't like it, but the feeling was unmistakable.
The silence between them stretched, thick and awkward. Lucas shifted slightly in his chair, clearing his throat, but no words came out. Amara continued eating slowly, her gaze lowered, her movements delicate and controlled.
The room felt too quiet.Too still.Too distant.
Lucas's fingers tapped once against the table, breaking rhythmically into the silence as if he were holding himself back from saying something else. His jaw flexed, his chest rising and falling with a deep inhale.
Amara finally looked up—just a flicker of her eyes meeting his.He noticed instantly.
And as soon as their gazes met, she looked back down, as though contact itself was too much.
His irritation spiked again at that.
He didn't understand why her silence felt sharper than her insults.
Amara finished eating quietly and set her bowl back on the table. She didn't move right away—she simply folded her hands in her lap and sat there, staring at the grain of the wooden table as though it held answers she didn't know how to ask for.
Lucas watched her, confused at the stillness.Normally she would have said something—anything—sarcasm, irritation, some sharp comment. But today… nothing.
He looked at the empty bowls and then back at her.
"…Dinner is over," he said, almost to himself.
He lifted his wrist slightly and tapped his watch twice—a silent signal. Within moments, Marco appeared at the doorway.
Marco bowed his head deeply toward Amara again, just like he had that morning—gentle, respectful, careful. The change in his behavior was deliberate. Lucas's eyes narrowed slightly at the display, though he didn't comment.
Marco collected the tray quietly and walked out, shutting the door behind him.
The silence returned.
Amara stayed seated exactly where she was.Waiting.Not sure if she was supposed to speak first.Not sure if she should leave.Not sure if he wanted something.
Lucas… wasn't sure either.
He had never been in a room with her where she wasn't fighting him—verbally or emotionally. He didn't know what to do with this version of her. The quiet. The distance. The emptiness in her posture.
He tapped his fingers once on the table, then stopped abruptly.
His throat felt oddly tight.
The silence stretched until he couldn't take it anymore.
He pushed his chair back and stood."You… should rest."
His voice sounded unfamiliar to his own ears—lower, controlled, but lacking the usual edge.
Amara's eyes lifted for a brief moment toward him.Just a second.A flicker.
Then they lowered again.
Lucas cleared his throat."I'll leave."
He didn't wait for her to respond.He didn't expect her to.
He walked toward the door, his footsteps purposeful but strangely hesitant. When he opened the door, he paused—just a fraction of a second—as if contemplating saying something else.
But nothing came.
He stepped out and closed the door behind him, exhaling slowly the moment he was alone in the hallway.
Lucas's POV – Back in His Room
He walked straight down the corridor and into his room, loosening his tie in a single sharp tug. The door shut behind him with a muted click. He tossed the tie onto the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the city lights outside the tall windows.
Why did it feel like the entire mansion had shifted into another world?
He dropped into the armchair and reached for the whisky bottle on the side table. Pouring himself a small amount, he leaned back and let the glass rest against his knee.
Why was dinner awkward?
He wasn't afraid of silence—he lived in silence.He commanded silence.He created silence.
But with her… silence felt wrong.Unnatural.Too heavy.
He didn't like seeing her reduced to one-word answers.Didn't like that she didn't look him in the eyes.Didn't like that she sat as though she were shrinking into herself.Didn't like that she was obedient in the wrong way.
It wasn't the obedience of respect.It was the obedience of fear.
Lucas's jaw tightened, and he took a slow sip of whisky.
He hated that.
He hated that he had caused that.
And most of all—he hated that it bothered him.
He set the glass down and leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed slightly as he tried to make sense of the strange heaviness in his chest.
Why do I care?
He didn't have the answer.
But he knew one thing for certain—whatever had changed between them tonight…he didn't like it.
Not at all.