Luna's POV
Dinner that evening was a tense affair. I sat across from Alexander at the grand dining table, the silence between us oppressive. The soft clinking of silverware against porcelain was the only sound as I pushed my food around on the plate.
Alexander, as always, was calm and composed, though his gaze occasionally flickered to me, as if he were assessing my every move. After the encounter in that room, the air between us felt thicker, charged with unspoken words and questions.
I wanted to ask about the woman in the photograph. I wanted to understand what made him so guarded, why he kept everyone—especially me—at a distance. But I knew better than to press him now.
"Is the food not to your liking?" he asked suddenly, his voice slicing through the quiet.
I looked up, startled. "No, it's fine. I'm just… not very hungry."
His eyes lingered on me for a moment before he set down his fork. "Luna, you need to understand something," he began, his tone measured. "I value order. Discipline. Boundaries. What happened earlier today was a violation of all three."
"I know," I said quietly. "And I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to cause trouble. I just…" I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "I want to understand you, Alexander. If I'm going to be here, I need to know who I'm dealing with."
His expression didn't change, but I noticed the slight twitch of his jaw. "There are parts of me you're better off not knowing," he said, his voice tinged with finality.
"Maybe," I countered, surprising myself with my boldness. "But don't you think I deserve to know what I've gotten myself into?"
For a moment, I thought he might lash out, but instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "You think you've gotten yourself into something, Luna?" he asked, his tone almost amused. "You have no idea."
His cryptic response only frustrated me further, but I bit back the retort forming on my tongue. Pressing him now would only make him retreat further into his shell.
Dinner ended with little else said, and I excused myself early, retreating to my room.
Later that night, as I lay in bed, the memory of the photograph haunted me. The woman's face was etched into my mind, her soft smile and the pain I thought I saw behind her eyes. Who was she to Alexander? A lover? A wife?
I couldn't stop the questions from swirling in my mind, each one leading to another. I had thought this arrangement would be simple—cold, transactional. But now, I wasn't so sure.
My restless thoughts kept me awake, and I eventually gave in to the urge to move. Throwing on a robe, I crept out of my room and wandered the darkened halls. The mansion was eerily quiet at night, the only sound my bare feet padding against the polished floors.
I found myself drawn to the piano room, the one place in this house that felt like a sanctuary. Sitting at the bench, I let my fingers glide over the keys, playing a soft, melancholy tune.
"You shouldn't be wandering the halls at this hour."
The deep voice startled me, and I turned to see Alexander standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He was dressed more casually than usual, his tie gone and the top buttons of his shirt undone.
"I couldn't sleep," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stepped inside, his movements slow and deliberate. "Music helps you," he observed, not as a question but a statement.
"It always has," I said, turning back to the piano. "It's the one thing that's always made sense to me."
He stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his presence. "Play something," he said softly.
I hesitated, but his tone held none of the coldness I'd come to expect. Nodding, I began to play, letting the music speak the words I couldn't.
When the last note faded, I turned to find him watching me, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence between us heavy with unspoken understanding.
"You remind me of her," he said finally, his voice barely audible.
I blinked, unsure if I'd heard him correctly. "Her?"
He looked away, his jaw tightening. "The woman in the photo," he admitted. "She… meant something to me. Once."
My heart ached at the pain in his voice, but I dared not press him further. Instead, I simply said, "I'm sorry."
He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Don't be. It was a long time ago."
The walls he'd built around himself were still there, but for the first time, I saw cracks forming. There was a man beneath the cold facade—a man who had loved and lost, who carried wounds he refused to show the world.
"I think you should go back to bed," he said abruptly, his voice returning to its usual detached tone.
I nodded, standing and moving toward the door. But before I left, I turned back to him. "Alexander," I said, meeting his gaze. "Whatever it is you're carrying, you don't have to carry it alone."
He didn't respond, his eyes dark and unreadable. But as I left the room, I couldn't shake the feeling that, for the first time, I'd gotten a glimpse of the man behind the mask.