The Billionaire's Silent Wife (Ryan and Eve) novel Chapter 2

The smell of whiskey hit her before he did.

Ryan slammed the front door shut like he meant to break it off the hinges. His footsteps were uneven, one shoe dragging as if gravity itself had turned against him. His shirt clung damply to his chest, half-tucked, collar loose, tie hanging from his pocket. His eyes, red, glassy, dangerous, locked on her like she was the reason for every wound carved into his life.

“Ryan,” Eve said softly, moving forward before he could stumble.

“Don’t.” He shoved her arm away, staggering past with more anger than balance. “Don’t touch me.”

The words weren’t new, but tonight his voice cracked, not just with rage, something rawer, dipped in grief. He moved like a storm hunting for something to shatter.

She stayed still. Watched. The jagged tremor in his hands told her what words didn’t. He’d been cornered again, most likely by Leah. His mother never relented: Why is she still here? Why haven’t you ended this? The poison dripped daily, and tonight it had finally split him open.

“You can’t f*****g leave me alone, can you?” His slurred voice echoed against marble. He spun on her, swaying. “Always here. Always… watching.”

“I’m not, ”

“I don’t need a babysitter.” His laugh was bitter, sharp. “And I damn sure don’t need a pity fuck.”

He staggered toward the dining table, caught himself on the edge before he could fall. The half-burned candlelight flickered across his face, hollowing his features.

Eve crossed the room quickly, bracing his arm, guiding him to the couch. He didn’t thank her, but this time he didn’t shove her away either. He collapsed, head back, shoulders slumped. A marionette with its strings cut.

She crouched in front of him, reaching for his shoes. He let her untie the first, the leather slipping easily off. But when her hand moved to his tie, his own shot forward, rough, stopping her wrist.

“Keep your filthy hands off me,” he rasped.

Her fingers stilled. She drew back without a word. His chest heaved, his gaze unfocused, the clock ticking steadily in the silence.

Then his voice dropped. Quieter. Almost broken.

“You make me sick.”

The words sliced, but she didn’t flinch. He wasn’t finished.

She stayed silent. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted to tear open the wound until it hurt enough to feel real.

“You could’ve had a better life,” he rasped. “You still could. So why the hell are you still here?”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “Maybe because I’m just as broken as you.”

The words stilled him. His anger cracked. His mask faltered.

He stared at her, and for a fleeting moment, they were strangers again, two people seeing each other without the weight of history between them.

Slowly, uncertainly, his hand reached for hers. He brought it to his chest, pressing it against the steady pound of his heart.

“Three years,” he whispered. “And it still hurts.”