Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss (Venus and Aaron) novel Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

**VENUS**

The atmosphere inside the car was thick, almost suffocating—not merely with unspoken words but with the weight of recent events that hung heavily in the air. I have never been one to navigate tension gracefully; it’s like trying to dance on a tightrope while blindfolded. So, in my usual fashion, I decided to shatter the oppressive silence.

When we climbed into the car, Aaron didn’t utter a single word. Instead, he revved the engine with a sense of urgency, driving as if he were fleeing from the awkwardness that enveloped us. It was as if the road ahead offered an escape from what had just transpired.

“Thanks for that,” he finally broke the stillness, his voice low and slightly strained.

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the streaks of streetlights flashing by outside. “No big deal,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Italian or Chinese?” he asked, his eyes still focused on the road.

“I’m good with whatever,” I shrugged, attempting to mask the gnawing uncertainty in my gut.

He didn’t push for more, and after a few moments of silence, we arrived at a quaint Italian restaurant tucked away from the bustling city. He ordered our food while I stood beside him, arms crossed, feigning indifference to the fact that he still hadn’t opened up much. Once we had our takeout, we made our way back to the penthouse.

As soon as we entered, Aaron disappeared down the hallway to freshen up, casually telling me to start eating without him. Under normal circumstances, I would have waited, but I felt the need to wash away the remnants of the boardroom debacle as well.

Twenty minutes later, I padded into the kitchen barefoot, my hair still damp and dressed in one of the oversized hoodies I had unapologetically claimed as my own. There, I found Aaron crouched by the wine cellar, holding up two bottles as if he were a game show host unveiling the grand prize.

“Red or white?” he asked, still not meeting my eyes.

He seemed… lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

I stared at the bottles, my knowledge of wine akin to my understanding of astrophysics—practically non-existent. “Uhh… red?” I ventured, hoping it wouldn’t taste like regret.

He nodded, discarding the white, and poured the red into two glasses. One glass slid toward me across the counter just as I twisted some pasta around my fork.

“Thanks,” I said, grateful for the distraction.

He settled beside me—close, yet not too close—and for a while, we simply ate in silence. No sharp remarks, no palpable tension. Just the comforting presence of food and a silence that felt more like a gentle embrace than a punishment. It was… nice.

However, silence and I have always had a complicated relationship, so I decided to break it once more.

“So… truce?” I proposed, my voice light yet hopeful.

He tilted his head, his brow arching in that infuriatingly perfect way that made him look like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe. “Truce?”

“You know,” I said, waving my fork for emphasis, “three years is a long-ass time. Fake love would be a lot easier if we were, I don’t know… friendly.”

“Friends?” He pronounced the word as if it were foreign to him.

“Yes, friends. You do know the concept, right? Friend /frend/: noun. Plural—friends. Meaning: someone who doesn’t look at you like you’ve just insulted their entire lineage.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, the sound breaking the tension like a bubble. “Smartass.”

I grinned, feeling a sense of accomplishment. “Yes, friends, Aaron.”

It was the first time I had said his name to his face without flinching. Interesting.

“Fine,” he relented, nodding. “Friends.”

I extended my hand. “Shake on it.”

He squinted at me, suspicion etched across his features. “Are you drunk already?”

“I haven’t even had a sip!” I protested.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he quipped, but he took my hand nonetheless. His grip was warm and firm, a little too steady for my liking.

We shook on it, sealing our newfound agreement.

As the evening wore on, several takeout boxes and glasses of wine later, the energy in the penthouse had shifted dramatically. The tension had dissipated, replaced by something lighter—though perhaps that was just the effect of the alcohol.

We found ourselves sitting on the floor, legs crossed like children at a sleepover, surrounded by half-eaten pasta and empty wine glasses. The news droned on the TV, muted and forgotten—a mere backdrop to our own little world.

I caught him glancing at me. Not a blatant stare, but a subtle observation, as if he were still trying to decipher the enigma that was me.

Fair enough. I wasn’t doing any better at understanding him.

“I don’t even want to know how much that bottle cost,” I laughed, emboldened by the warmth of the wine coursing through me.

He opened his mouth to respond, but I reached over and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shhh. Don’t tell me,” I insisted playfully.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching in amusement. “I was going to say you’ve had enough.”

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat. “Time. People. Myself, maybe.”

I absorbed his words, letting them sink in. “So… no boybands?”

“I said I was intense, not soulless,” he retorted, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

I erupted in laughter, loud and unrestrained. “So it was Westlife!”

“I’m not confirming anything,” he said, a mock-seriousness in his tone.

“Coward. I take back the truce,” I teased.

He leaned in closer, his voice low and playful. “I’d like to see you try.”

And there it was again—that quiet heat simmering just beneath the surface of our banter. But I didn’t flinch. I never do.

“Okay then, Mr. Enigma. Your turn,” I challenged.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“To ask me something. That’s how this works,” I explained, grinning.

He regarded me, really looked at me, as if trying to peel back the layers.

“Alright, Venus. Why’d you really agree to this marriage?” he asked, his tone suddenly serious.

And there it was—the question that cut through all the fluff like a knife.

I looked away, my fingers tightening around my empty glass. “Because someone had to save my mom,” I said softly. “And I was all I had.”

The silence that followed was not empty or awkward; it was heavy in a different way—full of understanding and unspoken truths.

He didn’t offer pity, just a quiet, solid understanding.

And maybe that was better.

Maybe that was exactly what I needed.