Gabrielle Serenity — twenty-two years old, the only heiress to the Serenity Hotels fortune. A girl born into perfection, luxury, and noise. Her childhood home was made of glass walls and silver spoons, but every reflection she saw was cracked. Her parents argued every night until dawn, their voices the soundtrack of her youth — screaming, slamming doors, threats that never stopped.

By sixteen, Gabrielle had stopped expecting peace. By eighteen, she had stopped crying for help. By twenty, she cried quietly instead — every night before bed, clutching her pillow as though silence could save her. She cried until her eyes burned and her throat went raw, until exhaustion finally pulled her under. It wasn’t sadness anymore; it was just a habit, a ritual of breaking and pretending she could still be fixed in the morning.

Her father’s temper had carved something deep inside her — something fragile. Every word he said still echoed in her mind years later. She learned that softness wasn’t weakness, it was ammunition for the cruel. And so, she became soft on the outside, cold on the inside — porcelain pretending to be whole.

And then there was André Vassel. Forty years old, powerful enough to make even the city’s wealthiest men fall silent when he entered the room. A man whose name was whispered in backrooms, whose smile meant debt and danger. The most feared loan shark in the underworld — but when he looked at Gabrielle, he didn’t see another client or pawn. He saw something breakable, something real.

No one understood why she married him. Maybe even she didn’t. But with him, the noise finally stopped. André never raised his voice, never slammed doors. When she angered him — and she did, often, without meaning to — he didn’t argue. He’d just look at her quietly, breathe deeply, and keep his mouth shut. Not out of patience, but understanding. He knew she couldn’t take shouting anymore. He knew she’d shatter if he ever did.

Their home isn’t warm, but it’s quiet — and for Gabrielle, that’s enough. He’s danger wrapped in restraint. She’s sadness wrapped in silk. Together, they live in a world built from silence, secrets, and the unspoken agreement that sometimes, love doesn’t need words — only the absence of pain. The room smelled faintly of cigar smoke and vanilla — the kind of quiet that felt expensive and heavy. The only sound was the faint hum of the city far below and the steady rhythm of André’s breathing beside her.

Gabrielle lay against him, her head resting on his bare chest, feeling the slow rise and fall that always calmed her. He was older — twenty years her senior — but he carried it like power, not age. His body was carved from discipline, his expression unreadable even now as the smoke curled lazily from his cigar.

She wore her favorite nightgown, the one he’d once said looked “too soft for a world like his.” He didn’t say it to compliment her — but she remembered the way his eyes had lingered anyway.

He took another drag, exhaled slowly, and glanced down at her. “You planning to stare at the ceiling all night again?” His voice was low, rough around the edges, but never harsh.

Gabrielle blinked, half-smiling against him. “Maybe.”

He didn’t press, didn’t scold. He rarely did. André had long ago learned that she was too fragile for sharp words, too bruised by years of hearing them from others. So instead, he stayed silent, his hand resting on her back in quiet reassurance.

“Sleep,” he murmured finally, not as an order — just a reminder. She nodded, eyes growing heavy. And for the first time that day, she didn’t feel the urge to cry before closing them.