Tied In Silence

The night was long, but Victor never slept.

Sitting in his office, whiskey glass untouched, he stared blankly at the city skyline—his mind replaying everything.

She went behind his back.

She met with a stranger.

For what? To find out who her husband really was?

His jaw clenched.

She wanted the truth? She wouldn't be able to handle it.

Victor had almost stormed into her room last night, ready to wake her up, ready to make her understand just who she belonged to.

But then he saw her.

Tear-streaked cheeks. Face turned toward the pillow, like she had cried herself to sleep.

Something in his chest tightened. He hated it.

Hated the way she looked so small.

Hated that he wasn’t the only thing making her cry.

His fingers curled into a fist.

He left her alone last night.

But this morning?

He wouldn’t be so merciful.

---

Morning

The moment he stepped into her room, he knew.

Lyra was awake.

She was sitting on the bed, legs pulled up to her chest, looking down at nothing. She looked weak, fragile… defeated.

But she refused to look at him.

Victor’s patience snapped.

"Come out." His voice was cold, controlled.

No response.

She was ignoring him.

His jaw clenched as he took a slow step forward. His presence alone was enough to make her shoulders tense, her fingers curling around the blanket.

But still—she didn’t look at him.

"Lyra." His voice was sharper now. "I said, come out."

Nothing.

Victor inhaled sharply. She was testing him.

Fine.

In two long strides, he was in front of her.

Lyra gasped when his fingers wrapped around her wrist—tight, unrelenting.

"Vic—tor…" Her voice was small, breaking slightly.

"Shut up and fucking come out and eat."

Her breath hitched at the brutal authority in his tone.

She didn’t fight him. She knew it was useless.

He pulled her out of bed, leading her downstairs. Her body was weak, but his grip never loosened.

She wasn’t escaping this.

---

The maids had already prepared everything. A full breakfast.

Victor pulled out a chair and forced her to sit down.

Then, he sat across from her, arms resting on the table, fingers slowly tapping against the wood.

His dark eyes never left her.

Like a predator watching his prey.

Like a man watching something he owned.

Lyra gripped the spoon in her trembling fingers.

"I…" her voice was barely a whisper. "I’m not—"

"Eat."

The word came out sharp. A command.

Lyra’s throat tightened.

She wasn’t hungry.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream at him.

She wanted to ask why.

Why did he leave her for two years?
Why was he acting like this?
Why did he still own every part of her?

But she knew he wouldn’t answer.

So, with a shaky breath, she lifted the spoon to her lips.

She couldn’t taste the food.

She only felt his eyes burning into her.

She set the spoon down, hands unsteady.

Victor leaned forward.

His voice was quiet, dangerous.

"Do you think I’m letting this go, little dove?"

Lyra’s stomach twisted.

He wasn’t talking about breakfast anymore.

She swallowed, her lips parting slightly—but before she could speak, Victor stood up.

Slowly, he walked around the table.

Her breath caught.

He stopped behind her.

The next thing she felt was his hand.

Resting on her shoulder.

Light. Barely a touch.

But the weight of it felt suffocating.

"You disobeyed me," Victor murmured, voice deep, slow.

His fingers brushed against her throat.

A shiver ran down her spine.

"Tell me, Lyra," he whispered.

"What should I do to you?"