RAYDEN
Rayden did not like silence.
Not the kind that came from empty rooms or closed doors—that was manageable. Predictable. What unsettled him was chosen silence. The kind that existed because someone decided not to speak.
Smyle had mastered that.
Rayden noticed it during the meeting.
He sat at the head of the table, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. Around him, executives spoke—numbers, partnerships, expansion plans—but his attention drifted, sharp and unwelcome.
Not to the figures.
To the memory of Smyle standing in the kitchen that morning.
Cold. Calm. Distant.
Not defiant.
That was worse.
"Mr. Black."
Rayden blinked once and refocused.
"Yes?"
The board member hesitated. "You've approved the merger terms?"
Rayden glanced at the document. He had already memorized it.
"Yes," he said. "Proceed."
The meeting continued, but something had shifted.
Control wasn't slipping.
It was misaligning.
OUTSIDE PRESSURE
After the meeting, Rayden's assistant walked beside him down the corridor.
"There's been increased movement," she said quietly. "Surveillance picked up unfamiliar faces near the villa perimeter last night."
Rayden stopped.
"How close?"
"Close enough to notice routines."
Rayden's jaw tightened.
"And Smyle?"
"Unaware."
Good.
Too good.
"That won't happen again," Rayden said flatly. "Double the rotation. Lock protocols remain active."
"Yes, sir."
The assistant hesitated. "There's also… internal concern."
Rayden turned.
"Concern about what?"
"Your visibility," she said carefully. "Your marriage. The frequency of appearances. Some partners believe it's a vulnerability."
Rayden laughed.
Once.
Soft. Sharp.
"They're wrong," he said. "It's leverage."
But even as he said it, an image surfaced uninvited—
Smyle stepping back after the camera flash.
One step.
A boundary.
Rayden dismissed his assistant with a nod and entered his office alone.
The door closed.
And the quiet returned.
THE THOUGHT HE DIDN'T LIKE
Rayden loosened his tie slowly.
He replayed the gala.
Not the attention.
Not the whispers.
Smyle.
How perfectly he had performed.
How easily he had withdrawn.
Rayden had built his world on certainty.
Smyle was becoming an unknown variable.
That was dangerous.
Not because Smyle was weak.
But because he wasn't.
Rayden pressed his palm against the glass wall overlooking the city.
"You're not supposed to feel like this," he muttered—to himself, not to Smyle.
Possession was simple.
Control was simple.
This—this awareness, this attention that followed Smyle even in rooms he wasn't in—this was not.
Rayden hated inefficiency.
And yet—
He found himself checking the time.
SMYLE
Smyle knew something was wrong long before the panic set in.
It started as restlessness.
Then unease.
Then the slow, crawling realization that Rayden was late.
He checked the clock.
6:40 p.m.
Rayden was never late without notice.
Smyle told himself not to care.
He told himself this didn't matter.
He failed.
By 7:15, he was pacing.
By 8:00, his chest felt tight.
By 8:30, his phone was clenched in his hand, screen lighting up again and again.
No answer.
No message.
Nothing.
"Stop," Smyle whispered to himself. "You're fine."
He wasn't.
The villa felt too large. The walls too still. His thoughts spiraled faster than he could stop them.
He tried breathing.
It didn't help.
When the phone finally buzzed, his hands shook so badly he almost dropped it.
Unknown number.
He answered anyway.
"Smyle."
Rayden's voice.
Low. Controlled.
Alive.
Smyle exhaled sharply, knees nearly giving out.
"Where are you?" he demanded—anger masking fear too thinly.
"A meeting ran long," Rayden said. "I'm on my way."
Smyle swallowed hard. "…Okay."
Rayden paused.
"You're upset."
Smyle laughed once, brittle. "You think?"
Silence stretched.
"I didn't intend to worry you," Rayden said.
Smyle closed his eyes. "I don't worry.. I just don't want you to be dead because I don't want to be widow."
The line went quiet.
THE RETURN
Rayden arrived just before midnight.
Smyle was waiting in the living room.
Not sitting.
Standing.
Arms crossed tightly, eyes bright with unshed emotion he refused to let fall.
Rayden stopped when he saw him.
"You should be asleep," he said.
Smyle didn't move.
"You didn't answer," Smyle said. "For hours."
"I was occupied."
"With what?" Smyle demanded.
Rayden hesitated.
Not long.
Just enough.
"Things you don't need to know."
Smyle laughed again—this time sharper.
"Right," he said. "Of course."
Rayden stepped closer.
Smyle didn't step back.
That was the mistake.
"You're angry," Rayden said.
"I am not! Well maybe I am! I just told you to tell me if you're alive." Smyle corrected.
The words landed hard.
Rayden's expression shifted—not hard, but strained.
"You must not care." he said.
Smyle shook his head. "You don't get to decide that."
Silence.
Then Rayden spoke quietly.
"You're protected but don't try to protect me."
Smyle met his gaze. "By what? Your absence?"
Rayden's control cracked—not outwardly, but internally.
This was not defiance.
This was expectation.
And Rayden had never been expected to return before.
"I won't apologize for my world," Rayden said.
"I'm not asking you to," Smyle replied. "I'm asking you not to die."
They stood there, tension tight as wire.
Then Rayden turned away.
"Get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow will be busy."
Smyle watched him walk down the hall.
Not toward his room.
Toward his office.
Toward distance.
And for the first time since the marriage—
Smyle wondered whether Rayden's obsession wasn't about ownership at all.
But fear.
Rayden remained in his office long after the lights in the villa dimmed.
The city outside the glass walls glowed faintly, distant and untouchable—like everything else tonight.
He replayed it again.
Every word.
Every pause.
Every time Smyle had looked at him without flinching.
I just told you to tell me if you're alive.
Rayden's jaw tightened.
Alive.
Not stay.
Not come back.
Alive.
He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes unfocused.
He had seen that kind of concern before.
From doctors.
From staff.
From people who cared in a broad, impersonal way.
Smyle was like that.
Soft. Considerate. Thoughtful to a fault.
He cared about everything.
Stray animals. Friends. People who didn't deserve it.
Rayden exhaled slowly.
You're not special, he told himself.
He's just like that.
That thought should have calmed him.
It didn't.
Instead, it irritated him.
Because if Smyle's concern wasn't personal—
Then why did it unsettle him so deeply?
Rayden stood and walked toward the window, resting his palm against the cold glass again.
He remembered another night.
Smyle crying silently, shoulders shaking as Rayden held him—only because the situation demanded it.
Smyle's fingers gripping his shirt like he might disappear.
At the time, Rayden had dismissed it.
Stress.
Shock.
Smyle being… Smyle.
He would've cried for anyone, Rayden thought.
That was the problem.
Rayden didn't want to be anyone.
The realization irritated him enough that he straightened abruptly.
"This is inefficient," he muttered.
He turned away from the window, from the thoughts, from the memory of Smyle standing in the living room—angry, scared, demanding something Rayden didn't know how to give.
Transparency.
Expectation.
Return.
Rayden had never belonged to anyone.
And he had never been asked to come back before.
SMYLE
Smyle didn't sleep.
Not properly.
He lay on his side, staring at the faint line of light beneath Rayden's office door at the end of the hall.
Still awake.
Of course he was.
Smyle curled his fingers into the blanket, frustration twisting in his chest.
Why did he care this much?
That question haunted him more than Rayden's absence.
He wasn't in love.
He wasn't delusional.
He knew what this marriage was.
A contract.
A cage with gold edges.
And yet—
The thought of Rayden bleeding somewhere alone made his stomach twist painfully.
"I'm stupid," Smyle whispered to the dark.
Rayden didn't need him.
Rayden didn't want him.
Rayden barely tolerated his questions.
Smyle turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
I just don't want to be a widow, he repeated silently.
That was reasonable.
That was logical.
That was not attachment.
Still, when the office light finally clicked off an hour later, Smyle's chest loosened just a fraction.
Annoyed at himself, he rolled over and forced his eyes closed.