The dining room glowed beneath soft golden lights. The long mahogany table was dressed in silverware and crystal glasses, the scent of freshly cooked dishes lingering in the air like a warm invitation. Leigh moved through the kitchen silently, helping the maids prepare every last detail. Her movements were practiced, quiet, graceful—like someone who knew how to stay invisible.
Outside, Ervin sat on the balcony with a glass of wine in hand, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. He watched the sunset as though none of it concerned him, as if the dinner about to unfold inside his mansion had nothing to do with him.
Whispers filled the kitchen.
"He's coming," one maid murmured nervously. "The old man himself."
Even the most senior among them seemed unsettled. Leigh merely wiped her hands and adjusted her apron. She didn't know much about Ervin's grandfather—only that the man was sharp, traditional, and didn't tolerate failure.
When he arrived, the air shifted.
The man's presence was commanding. White hair. Piercing gaze. An aura of authority that made even Ervin stand straighter.
Dinner began with no fanfare. The quiet clink of silver against porcelain echoed in the silence.
Then came the question that cut through everything.
"So," the old man said, calm but cold. "How's the marriage?"
Leigh stilled. Ervin didn't look up. No smile. No lie. Nothing.
More silence.
"I asked a question."
Neither of them spoke. The truth sat heavy in the room. They were not a couple. They never had been. At least, not truly.
"I'll be staying here for the next three nights," the old man declared suddenly.
Ervin's glass nearly slipped. "You don't have to—"
"I do," came the curt reply. "I want to see how you live. How your wife is treated."
No one argued. They couldn't.
Later, Leigh and Ervin walked down the hall. Tension pressed between them like walls closing in.
"Where's your room?" the old man suddenly asked behind them.
Neither answered.
"You're not still sleeping in separate beds, are you?"
No response. Just silence.
The old man turned away. "I'll be watching."
And so, without a word, Leigh followed Ervin into the master bedroom—the first time. The air inside was thick.
She walked to the edge of the room, keeping her back to him. "I'll take the couch."
"No," Ervin said, voice low.
She turned. "It's not like we have to act when he's not watching."
He walked toward her slowly. "You think this is still about acting?"
Leigh said nothing.
Ervin's eyes scanned her, deliberately, darkly. "You're quieter than I remember. Still playing the obedient wife? Even now?"
She looked away.
"You think silence makes you strong?" he whispered, stepping closer. "Or are you just afraid of what you'll say if you finally let yourself speak?"
Still, she didn't answer.
Ervin's hand brushed her arm—lightly at first. Then firmer. Testing. His fingers moved up slowly to her shoulder. She tensed.
"Tell me," he said against her ear, "does pretending not to remember give you peace? Or is it just easier to forget the wife you used to be?"
She jerked away.
But he didn't stop. He stepped closer again, slower this time, like a predator stalking something he already owned.
Leigh backed into the wall, her shoulder blades hitting the cold surface. Her breath caught in her throat as Ervin placed one hand flat beside her head, boxing her in.
His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Why are you shaking, Leigh? It's not fear, is it?"
She looked away, but he gently gripped her chin and turned her face to his.
"Look at me."
She refused.
So he leaned closer, his breath grazing her cheek, his chest barely brushing hers. The heat between them was unbearable. She could feel it rising—anger, confusion, memories.
"You wear silence like a shield," he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. "But your body remembers me."
Then, his fingers trailed down the side of her arm, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their path. She clenched her fists to resist the impulse to push him—until he touched her waist, pulling her barely an inch closer.
That was her breaking point.
She raised her hand, swift and sharp, aiming for his cheek.
But Ervin caught her wrist mid-air, his grip firm.
And in that single second of tension, their bodies pulled into one another—not out of affection, but friction.
His other hand moved to her face as if to stop her again, but their movements tangled. Her breath hitched, his expression darkened—and then it happened:
His lips slammed into hers.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't sweet.
It was messy—an accidental, forceful crash of mouths from too much proximity and too much chaos.
Leigh froze.
So did he.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. His hand was still on her waist, hers still caught in his grip, their lips locked in something neither planned nor wanted—but couldn't immediately pull away from.
Her heartbeat pounded so hard it echoed in her ears. His breath trembled against her lips.
When they finally pulled apart, it wasn't graceful. She shoved him back, eyes wide, lips parted in shock.
Ervin stared at her like he couldn't believe it either—like he didn't recognize what just happened.
Silence stretched between them like a wound.
"I—" Leigh tried to speak, but her voice caught.
Ervin didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at her, stunned. Something had cracked open between them, something raw and dangerous.
She turned toward the door.
"You can't leave," he said lowly.
She paused, trembling.
"If you're gone, he'll notice. He's watching us."
The weight of that truth kept her still.
And slowly, she walked toward the couch—away from him, away from the memory of his lips—curling up without another word.
Ervin stood there, staring at the space where she had been, the ghost of the kiss still clinging to the air between them.
Two strangers.
One bed.
And a war neither of them knew how to end.