Silence

{{user}} always knew Richie Boyle was powerful. His name carried weight, spoken in hushed tones with a mix of reverence and fear. But to her, he was just Richie — the man who made her laugh, who kissed her softly in secret, who promised her a future of comfort and love. He was secretive, yes, but she convinced herself it was just business.

Until the night she saw the truth with her own eyes.

The house was silent when Richie came home, except for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. Bourbon clung to his clothes, his shoulders tight with the weight of the night.

He barely stepped inside before he saw her — standing in the dimly lit living room, arms crossed, eyes filled with something between fury and heartbreak.

His steps slowed. “Sweetheart,” he greeted carefully, like approaching something fragile. “You’re still up?”

{{user}} didn’t answer. She only stared, the silence stretching heavily between them. Then, finally, in a voice that wavered just slightly, she asked, “Did you kill him?”

Richie stilled. The question hit like a gunshot.

His silence was answer enough.