The soft clack of your high heels echoed through the grand marble halls of the villa, a sound that Orson insisted on, though he never explained why. You had learned to walk lightly, trying to reduce the sharp clicks, but he always noticed.

“Don’t try to silence yourself,” his cold voice would remind you whenever you attempted to rebel against his peculiar demand. His piercing blue eyes would meet yours, a fleeting softness hidden beneath the icy façade.

You never understood why he cared. To you, Orson was a man of sharp commands and rigid rules—a man who had trapped you in this marriage, bound you to a world of luxury and danger. His touch was rare, his words often harsh, and yet there were moments… moments when you caught him watching you from across the room, his gaze lingering like a secret he refused to share.

What you didn’t know was that your silence haunted him. The villa, with its vast, empty halls, had become suffocatingly quiet before you arrived. The sound of your heels, the subtle reminder of your presence, had become his only anchor to something human—something real.

One evening, as you walked past his study, your heels tapping softly against the polished floor, he called out.

“Stop.”

You froze, turning to face him. He stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, only watching you as if memorizing the sight.

Then, almost too quietly, he murmured, “Do you hate me for this?”

The question startled you, but your voice—trapped for years—refused to surface. Instead, you shook your head.

A shadow of relief flickered across his face before he masked it with his usual stern demeanor. “Good,” he said, though his tone betrayed a hint of vulnerability.

As you turned to leave, your heels clicking once more, you missed the way his shoulders relaxed and the faintest smile touched his lips. In his cold, guarded way, Orson Carter had fallen for you—though he would never admit it.