Chapter 42 After the Silence
Isabella’s POV
The days after that night blurred together.
I barely left my room.
I ate when the housekeepers brought food. I showered. I slept when exhaustion finally dragged me under.
And the rest of the time…
I stayed inside these four walls.
The guest room had become my world.
I hadn’t stepped outside the door in days.
Not even once.
The housekeepers knocked quietly every morning and evening, leaving trays of food just inside the door before quickly disappearing down the hall.
None of them asked questions.
None of them looked surprised that I refused to leave the room.
Maybe Alexander had told them not to.
Or maybe they had simply learned not to ask about things that didn’t concern them.
Either way, I was grateful for the silence.
The less people looked at me, the better.
Especially with the bandages still wrapped around my arm.
My right hand throbbed constantly.
The cut was stitched, but the pain still lingered—deep and sharp whenever I tried to use that arm for anything.
Holding things hurt.
Lifting anything heavier than a glass hurt.
Even gripping a fork too tightly made the wound pull painfully under the bandage.
So I used my left hand for most things.
Slowly.
Awkwardly.
Carefully.
And every time the pain flared, the memory came rushing back.
The knife.
His eyes.
The way he looked at me like I was something he wanted to destroy.
I pushed the thought away again.
My phone buzzed beside me on the bed.
Sarah.
Of course.
She had been calling every day.
Sometimes multiple times a day.
She wanted to FaceTime most of the time, but I always found an excuse not to.
Tonight was no different.
SARAH CALLING
I stared at the screen for a moment before answering.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
“Finally,” Sarah said. “I thought you disappeared.”
“I’m just tired,” I said quickly.
“Still?”
“Yeah… I think I’m coming down with something.”
It wasn’t technically a lie.
I did feel terrible.
Just not for the reason she thought.
“You sound weird,” she said.
“I just want to sleep,” I told her. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then she sighed.
“Fine. But tomorrow we’re FaceTiming. I’m not letting you hide forever.”
“Okay,” I said.
She hung up.
I set the phone down slowly.
Lying had become easier than explaining the truth.
Because how do you tell your best friend that the man you married tied you to a chair and cut you?
You don’t.
You pretend everything is fine.
You pretend you’re just tired.
You pretend you’re sick.
Days passed like that.
Me trapped inside this room.
The world moved on outside the door.
Eventually the walls started to feel smaller.
The silence felt heavier.
I was getting tired of staring at the same furniture, the same window, the same ceiling.
But the thought of leaving the room still made my stomach twist.
Because he was out there.
Somewhere in the penthouse.
And I wasn’t ready to see him again.
Not yet.
Not ever, if I could help it.
That night I woke up suddenly.
The room was dark.
The clock beside the bed read 2:07 AM.
I sat up slowly.
For the first time in days, the penthouse was completely silent.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Nothing.
Which probably meant Alexander was asleep.
Or not home.
Either way…
It felt safe.
And suddenly, a very simple craving hit me.
Ice cream.
I stared at the door for a long moment.
My heart is beating slightly faster.
Just the kitchen.
In and out.
He’s asleep.
Carefully, I stood and slipped out of the room.
The hallway was dark.
Quiet.
Every step felt strange after days of hiding.
But nothing happened.
No voices.
No footsteps.
I made it to the kitchen without seeing anyone.
Relief washed through me.
The freezer was full of desserts.
I found the ice cream quickly.
Vanilla.
My favorite.
I grabbed a bowl and the scoop.
Then immediately realized something.
The scoop was harder to press into the ice cream than I expected.
I tried pushing down with my right hand.
Pain shot through my arm instantly.
I hissed softly.
“Damn it.”
I tried again.
The scoop slipped.
The ice cream barely moved.
Frustration bubbled up in my chest.
“I just want ice cream,” I muttered to myself.
I tried using my left hand.
Awkward.
Unsteady.
The scoop slipped from my fingers and clattered loudly onto the floor.
I froze.
The sound echoed through the quiet penthouse.
“Great,” I whispered.
I bent down to pick it up.
Tried again.
The scoop slipped again.
This time hitting the floor even louder.
My patience snapped.
I slammed the container down onto the counter.
“Seriously?”
Footsteps.
My heart stopped.
Heavy.
Slow.
Coming from the hallway.
I turned slowly.
Alexander walked into the kitchen.
The moment I saw him, I knew something was different.
He was drunk.
Not slightly.
Completely.
His tie hung loose around his neck. His jacket was gone. His hair was slightly messy, like he had been running his hands through it all night.
And his face—
He looked miserable.
His eyes landed on me instantly.
For a long moment he didn’t say anything.
He just stared.
I dropped my gaze immediately.
My chest tightened.
Fear crawled back under my skin.
I quickly grabbed the ice cream container and tried to walk past him toward the hallway.
But before I could pass—
His hand moved.
Blocking my path.
I stopped.
Slowly lifting my eyes.
Up close, I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
He didn’t move his hand right away.
His eyes stayed locked on mine.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
The kitchen felt strangely quiet, the air thick with something heavy I couldn’t quite name.
Up close, I could see how exhausted he looked.
Not just drunk.
His gray eyes moved slowly across my face like he was searching for something, something he didn’t know how to ask for.
Like there were words trapped somewhere inside him.
But they wouldn’t come out.
His jaw tightened.
He opened his mouth slightly.
Then closed it again.
Whatever he was about to say… he swallowed it.
And for a brief second, something flickered across his face.
Regret.
Pain.
Maybe even guilt.
But I forced myself not to think about it.
Not to analyze it.
Not to try to understand him again.
I had already promised myself I was done doing that.
Done trying to figure him out.
Done looking for pieces of good inside someone who had already shown me exactly who he was.
So I looked down at his hand still blocking my way.
“Let go,” I said quietly.
My voice sounded calm.
But inside, my heart was racing.
He didn’t move immediately.
His eyes searched mine again, like he was trying to read something there.
Like he was hoping to find something he had already destroyed.
But whatever he was looking for—
It wasn’t there anymore.
Finally, slowly, his arm dropped.
The path in front of me cleared.
I stepped past him.
Carefully.
Without touching him.
Without looking at him.
I took two steps toward the hallway.
Three.
Behind me, I heard him move.
I glanced back just in time to see him walk toward the counter.
He grabbed a bottle of whiskey.
Poured another glass.
Then he drank it in one swallow.
Like he was trying to drown something inside himself.
I turned back toward the hallway.
Just keep walking, I told myself.
Just go back to your room.
But before I could take another step,
A loud crash exploded behind me.
Glass shattered across the floor.
The sound was so sudden it made me jump.
I stopped.
My heart pounding.
Slowly, I turned around.
Alexander stood near the counter.
The glass he had been holding lay in pieces on the marble floor, whiskey spreading across the surface.
His chest rose and fell heavily.
For a moment he just stood there, staring at the broken glass like he hadn’t meant to throw it.
Like he didn’t even realize he had.
Then his eyes lifted to mine.
And the look on his face—
I had never seen anything like it before.
All the anger.
All the arrogance.
All the control he usually carried so easily—
Gone.
What was left looked raw.
Wounded.
Almost… desperate.
When he spoke, his voice came out rough.
Broken in a way I had never heard before.
His voice broke in a way I had never heard before.
“Please…”
The word barely made it past his lips.
His eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and intense, like he was holding onto something fragile that might shatter if he looked away.
For a moment neither of us moved.
And for the first time since I had known him—
Alexander Kingsley sounded afraid.
Then he said it again.
“Please… don’t leave.”
The words felt wrong coming from him.
Too soft.
Too desperate.
Too vulnerable for a man who had never shown weakness in front of me.
My mind replayed the same image over and over again.
The knife.
The chair.
The cold, empty look in his eyes when he cut me.
“I’m not leaving,” I said carefully. “I’m just going back to my room.”
He shook his head slowly, like my words didn’t make sense to him.
“No… not like that,” he murmured, voice thick with alcohol.
“I messed up,” he said suddenly.
The words came out fast, almost tripping over each other.
“It’s more than messing up, Alexander,” I said quietly. “You cut me. Deep.”
My voice didn’t rise.
It didn’t need to.
“I can’t feel safe around you after that.”
Something flickered across his face.
Pain.
Real pain.
But I didn’t soften.
Because it was the truth.
“I didn’t mean to… I mean I did—but I didn’t…” His voice tangled over itself.
I frowned.
“What are you even trying to say?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, looking lost.
“I don’t know how to deal with things when they’re out of my control,” he muttered.
None of it made much sense.
“What?”
His eyes lifted to mine again.
Glassy.
Unfocused.
Vulnerable in a way that felt completely foreign on him.
“You don’t understand what that did to me,” I said quietly.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Alexander flinched.
Actually flinched.
Like the sentence had physically hit him.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said hoarsely.
“You cut me.”
My voice stayed steady.
His gaze dropped slowly to my bandaged hand.
For a moment something heavy crossed his face.
Regret.
Then he took a step forward.
His foot caught the edge of the broken glass on the floor.
His balance shifted suddenly.
He almost fell.
“Careful,” I said instinctively.
I moved before I could stop myself, grabbing his arm to steady him.
He leaned against the counter heavily.
Drunk.
Exhausted.
“You need to lie down,” I said quietly.
To my surprise, he didn’t argue.
Slowly, I guided him down the hallway toward his bedroom.
His weight leaned slightly against me as we walked, his steps uneven.
For a man who controlled entire empires with ruthless precision—
He looked strangely human like this.
When we reached his room, he dropped heavily onto the bed.
I stepped back immediately.
“I’m going to my room,” I said.
His hand shot out suddenly.
He caught my wrist.
“Stay.”
The word was quiet.
But firm.
I froze.
“I can’t,” I said softly.
He looked up at me, confused.
“Why?”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“Are you seriously asking me why, Alexander?” My voice shook, anger and fear tangling together. “You cut me. You actually cut me.”
The words came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t stop.
“I’m terrified of you. I’m scared for my life. I don’t know what you’re capable of when you lose control.” My chest tightened as the memories rushed back. “Next time it might not be a cut. Next time you might stab me. Next time you might end my life.”
The room went silent.
The words hung between us, heavy and undeniable.
And for the first time since that night, the truth slipped out before I could stop it.
“When I look at you right now,” I said quietly, “I don’t know which version of you I’m standing in front of.”
Alexander went completely still.
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything else between us.
Slowly, his grip on my wrist loosened.
Then he lifted my injured hand carefully, like it was something fragile.
He placed it gently against his cheek and closed his eyes.
“I would never take your life,” he murmured quietly. “Never, Isabella.”
His voice sounded raw.
“I would end my own life before I ever took yours.”
I didn’t know what to say to something like that.
His gaze dropped to the bandage wrapped around my hand.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he brought it slowly to his lips.
His kiss was soft.
Careful.
Right over the wound he had made.
“I didn’t mean…” he muttered.
His voice cracked.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Alexander,” I said quietly, gently pulling my hand away. “This isn’t the right time to talk about this.”
“You’re drunk.”
“We can talk about it when you’re sober.”
“I just want to…” he whispered.
His voice faltered again.
“I wish I could take it back.”
I shook my head slowly.
“What happened already happened.”
“There’s nothing you can do to undo it.”
The words hung in the air between us.
He hesitated.
Then said quietly,
“Promise me something.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Promise me we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
His eyes met mine again.
Clearer now.
More serious.
“Promise me you won’t shut me out.”
Every instinct inside me screamed to say no.
To tell him exactly where he could go after what he had done to me.
But the words wouldn’t come.
“I can’t promise that, Alexander,” I said honestly.
“But we’ll see how I feel in the morning.”
He studied my face for a long moment.
Then slowly nodded.
“Okay.”
I stepped away from the bed.
“Good night, Alexander.”
I turned and walked out of his room.
My heart was still pounding as I stepped into the quiet hallway.
I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.
I didn’t know if I would be ready to talk to him.
Or if I would lock myself in my room and pretend none of this ever happened.
All I knew was that something had shifted tonight.
Something fragile.
Something dangerous.
And I had no idea what to do with it.