Chapter 6: The Heat Beneath Silence
"Madam, wake up… It’s already late. Everyone is waiting for you at the breakfast table."
Mara’s voice came through the haze of dreams, tugging Irina from the remnants of last night’s magic.
"Mara… just a little longer," Irina mumbled, burying her face into the pillow. "I didn’t sleep at all last night…"
"Please, madam," Mara said, more urgently now. "Your father is calling you."
That made Irina bolt upright.
"What? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?" she gasped, her hair a tousled mess of waves.
Mara gave her a tired, unbothered glance. "I did."
Irina didn’t waste another second. She leapt from bed, hastily brushing her hair back with her fingers and pulling on a soft day dress with shaking hands.
Moments later, she rushed downstairs.
"Good morning, Father!" Irina said breathlessly as she entered the grand dining room.
Victor, seated at the head of the long table, looked up mid-sip from his tea. "Morning," he replied calmly.
"You’re late," Celeste remarked with her usual frosty tone, not bothering to hide the disdain in her voice as she buttered her toast with slow, precise movements.
"Sorry, Mother," Irina said, forcing a small smile as she took her seat.
Victor glanced toward the empty chair beside him. "Where is Stephen?"
Celeste dabbed her mouth with her napkin. "Oh, darling, he’s still sleeping. I didn’t wake him. He was tired—last night’s party wore him out."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "We were all at that party, yet we’re all here."
Irina pressed her lips together, hiding a quiet smile.
Victor, oblivious to the exchange, continued, "So, Irina… how did your little reunion with Wanston go?"
Irina looked up, startled for a moment. "It was good," she said, trying to sound neutral.
But her voice gave her away—too light, too quick.
Victor smiled knowingly.
Celeste’s knife clinked against her plate a little louder than necessary.
Just as Irina reached for her cup of tea, the sound of quiet footsteps echoed from the hallway.
“Morning, Father. Mother.”
Stephen entered the dining hall, his voice low, unreadable. His expression gave away nothing—no hint of the storm that had raged in his eyes just hours ago.
He pulled out the chair beside Irina and sat down without glancing at her. His movements were calm, practiced. Mechanical. He began helping himself to breakfast—toast, fruit, eggs—cutting them with precise, deliberate motions.
Irina sat frozen beside him, eyes flicking toward him once, then quickly away. The air between them was stiff, like a string pulled too tight.
Celeste’s voice broke the fragile silence.
“Darling, you look exhausted,” she cooed. “Why did you even get out of bed? I should’ve sent breakfast to your room.”
Stephen didn’t look up. “No, it’s fine. I’m good now.”
Victor folded his napkin neatly and set it down, studying his son. “You look pale.”
Before Stephen could respond, Celeste chimed in again, waving her hand dramatically. “Oh, he’s just been feeling unwell since last night. I think the food wasn’t fresh—it must’ve made him sick.”
Victor’s brow furrowed. “You should still call the doctor.”
Stephen finally looked up, voice quiet but firm. “It’s not that serious.”
Silence descended again, thick and awkward.
The only sound left was the soft clinking of forks against porcelain, and the occasional rustle of napkins.
Victor dabbed his lips with a napkin and smiled, sipping the last of his tea.
“Last night was good,” he said thoughtfully, eyes scanning the quiet room. “I’m thinking of hosting a party—something special, just for the Hale family.”
He turned to Irina. “What do you think, Irina?”
Irina’s eyes lit up. The memory of starlit laughter and the feel of Wanston’s hand was still fresh in her mind.
“Yes, Father. That would be wonderful.” Her voice danced with excitement.
Across the table, Stephen froze mid-cut. His knife scraped against the plate—a harsh screech in the quiet room. He looked up slowly, eyes narrowed, locking onto her with a heat that burned cold.
“I’m done.”
The words were clipped, tight. He shoved his chair back and stood.
“I’m going to my room.”
Without another word, he walked away.
In his room, Stephen paced like a trapped animal, eyes dark, fists tight. Her voice still echoed in his ears—Yes, Father... That would be wonderful.
He could see her smile. The way her eyes had sparkled. Not for him. For him.
Wanston Hale.
That damn smirk. That damn hand kiss. That damn dance.
Stephen ran a hand through his hair, chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. He clenched his jaw, stepped toward the window, then back again. Over and over, as if walking could erase the image burned into his mind.
Then—footsteps.
Light. Familiar.
Without thinking, without hesitating, Stephen swung open the door.
Irina stood there, startled.
Before she could say a word, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside.
The door slammed shut.
He pushed her back, pinning her to the door, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her arm—not enough to hurt, but enough to hold her still.
His face was inches from hers. His breath uneven. His eyes—dark storms of jealousy and confusion.
“You look so happy, huh?” he growled.
Irina blinked, stunned. “Stephen—let go of me!”
She pushed against his chest, struggling, but he didn’t move.
“Can I ask why?” he hissed. “Why the hell do you look like you’re floating? Is it him?”
Her voice trembled. “Stephen—please—let go of me!”
She tried to slip past him, but he pulled her back—closer this time—his grip tightening around her waist.
“Is it because of Wanston Hale?”
His voice dripped with venom.
“Does he make you smile like that? Is that why your eyes shine now?”
Irina’s back hit the door, her breathing sharp, eyes wide.
“Stephen, stop it!” she snapped, her voice trembling, defiant.
“I’m not going to answer you that!”
His grip on her arm tightened—not brutally, but with a desperate, angry force. The veins on his jaw stood out as he leaned closer, his eyes burning into hers.
“Oh, Irina…” he growled, the heat in his breath brushing her cheek.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAlVzgp5Knn
“You will answer my every question.”
His voice dropped—a dangerous whisper wrapped in obsession.
“Don’t you dare think you can get away from me that easily.”
Irina's face twisted—confused, stunned, a flicker of fear mixing with disbelief.
“What are you even saying?” she asked, breathless.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPNHeMOaPTx
“That was Father’s decision. You have no right to question it—”
He cut her off, voice low but laced with rage.
“Oh, Irina…” he sneered, leaning so close she could feel the heat of his frustration.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVLmeNV4rFn
“I have every right.”
The silence hung for a beat too long—his words lingering like smoke, wrapping around her like a chain.
But then—she moved.
With a sudden burst of will, Irina shoved him away. He staggered slightly, caught off guard.
She didn’t wait.
She turned and ran—her heart thundering in her chest—straight to her room.
Slamming the door shut behind her, she leaned against it, locking it quickly, as if trying to shut out what just happened.
Her hands shook as she pressed them to her chest.
Her heart was pounding, wild and scared.
She slid down the door, curling slightly, eyes wide and staring at the floor as if it held answers.
“What… was that?”
Her voice barely escaped her lips.
“Why did he act like that?”
She touched her arm where his grip still lingered like a ghost. Her mind spun in a hundred directions, none of them making sense.
He had looked at her like she belonged to him.
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