The Billionaire's Silent Wife (Ryan and Eve) novel Chapter 11

11 Grief Wears My Name

+25 Points

Morning arrived with a pale, indifferent sky. Light filtered weakly through the curtains, painting soft lines across the marble floors. Eve moved through it quietly, her body heavy with exhaustion

though her face betrayed nothing.

She swept the kitchen floor. She folded fresh laundy. She smoothed the sofa cushions into perfect symmetry. Every motion was precise, practiced, as though keeping the house immaculate might hold her own breaking pieces together.

By midmorning she had changed into her uniform: black slacks, a plain shirt, a clean apron folded under her arm. The fabric carried the faint scent of flour and garlic from countless shifts in the diner kitchen. She left through the side door, her footsteps soft on the stone path. Ryan was still

upstairs. She didn’t expect him to notice her absence.

The walk to work was brisk, the city alive with early chatter, the rumble of buses, the cry of street vendors staking out corners. Eve kept her head down, hair tied neatly back, her movements purposeful. At the restaurant, she slipped through the back door where the warmth of ovens and the metallic clang of pans swallowed her whole.

“Morning, Eve,” Mr. Vargo called from the far counter, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Morning,” she replied with a faint smile.

He didn’t ask about her home life. He never did. That was part of why she respected him. In the kitchen, she wasn’t Ryan Ashbrook’s wife, or the chauffeur’s daughter. She was an assistant chef. A woman who chopped onions quickly, seared chicken to perfection, plated pasta with steady

hands.

She moved through the shift with quiet focus, her knife steady, her posture exact. Orders came in, meals went out. She barely had time to breathe, and that was good. Motion kept the ache at bay.

It wasn’t until evening, when she walked home with the sun sinking behind the rooftops, that her

phone rang. The vibration buzzed sharp against her palm.

Ethan.

Her brother’s name lit the screen.

She answered, breathless. “Hello?”

His voice cracked on the other end. “Nana’s gone, Eve.”

The world tilted. She stopped dead on the sidewalk, the air knocked out of her lungs.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Ethan whispered, his voice breaking. “It happened this afternoon. Peaceful. She didn’t

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suffer.”

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Eve’s knees weakened. She pressed a hand against the nearest wall, the cool brick steadying her as tears welled hot in her eyes. Strangers passed, but she didn’t care. Her body shook with the

force of silent sobs, her phone pressed tight against her ear.

“I,” Her voice fractured. “I’ll come.”

Ethan murmured something gentle, but she barely heard it. The line ended, leaving her in the hum

of traffic and the weight of sudden emptiness.

Her Nana. The woman who had braided her hair, taught her to knead bread, wiped her tears with soft hands when no one else cared. The one person who had made Eve feel wanted, cherished,

safe. Gone.

Her feet carried her home on instinct. When she pushed open the door to the estate, silence hit her like a physical thing. She dropped her bag by the stairs, stood in the entryway, and tried to breathe through the jagged edges of grief clawing her chest.

The mansion swallowed her whole. Marble. Glass. Quiet. No arms to fall into, no voice to soften

the blow. She sat on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the

floor.

Hours passed.

The door opened around eight. Ryan stepped in, loosening his tie, his suit crisp even at the end of the day. He glanced toward the living room, found her sitting there.

He paused.

Not long enough to notice the redness in her eyes. Not long enough to ask.

He crossed into the dining room. No dinner on the table.

Eve rose slowly, her movements steady. She carried a plate from the kitchen, set it in front of him,

and stepped back.

His gaze flicked to her face, unreadable.

“I’ll be at my father’s this weekend,” she said calmly, her voice quiet but controlled. “Let me know if

there’s anything you need before then.”

Ryan nodded once. “Fine.”

No more words. No questions. No awareness that the woman standing in front of him was

hollowed out by loss.

She turned and walked away, her shoulders straight, her steps measured.

Later, in her room, she packed a small bag. Simple clothes, folded neatly. A black dress for the

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11 Grief Wears My Name

funeral. A scarf her grandmother had given her years ago, worn but treasured.

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Saturday came. Before leaving, she moved through the kitchen again. She prepared Ryan’s meals, labeling containers with neat handwriting, sliding them into the fridge as if he’d notice. He wouldn’t. But she did it anyway.

She hailed a cab to her father’s house. The ride was quiet, her face turned to the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold.

When she arrived, her father called her into a back room. His movements were sharp, impatient.

He shut the doth unnecessary force.

“They couldn’t even call to console me,” he muttered.

Eve already knew what this would be.

“I didn’t tell Ryan,” she said flatly. .

His head snapped toward her. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because he wouldn’t help. He wouldn’t care.”

Her father’s jaw clenched. “Why are you so arrogant?”

Something bitter caught in her throat. Her arms lifted slightly, her voice rising with quiet

devastation.

“Just look at me, Daddy. I’m married to a billionaire and I rode here in a cab. Look at my clothes. Do I look like someone whose husband dotes on her? Do I look like someone who matters?”

Her voice cracked. “He hates me. I sleep in a guest room like a visitor. I haven’t known what it feels like to be held with care in three years.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve lived with that man for three years and couldn’t seduce him

once? You’re a disgrace.”

The slap came fast, hot, sharp across her cheek. Her head jerked to the side, but she didn’t cry.

“You better not do anything stupid,” he hissed. “There’s a deal in the works. Another contract

Ryan’s paying for. You ruin this for me, and I swear,

She didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, but her steps were calm, deliberate. She turned, walked out

of the room, and closed the door behind her.

Her heart was broken, her face stung, but her spine remained straight.

She had come home to bury the only person who had ever loved her. And even that, she would

have to do alone.

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