The Billionaire's Silent Wife (Ryan and Eve) novel Chapter 6

06 The Birthday That Wasn’t

The dinner table glowed. The cake waited. But Ryan never showed up.

+25 Points

Eve stared at the flickering candles. Twelve of them, two for each year she wished she had known him before the bitterness, before silence turned their marriage into a mausoleum. Their flames stretched upward, golden and soft, casting shadows that made the table look fuller than it was.

She had spent the day preparing. Rosemary roast chicken, garlic potatoes whipped until smooth, sautéegetables cut in even slices. The kitchen still smelled faintly of rosemary and butter, rich and inviting. In the center of the table sat the cake, round and dark, glossy with ganache, its edges trimmed with curls she’d shaved herself. Next to it lay the small black-wrapped box, his gift. A

leather-bound journal, monogrammed with his initials. Simple. Personal.

The clock read 9:03 p.m.

Eve didn’t cry. Not yet. Her eyes lingered on the chair across from her, empty as always. The rules of the house were etched into her by now: don’t expect, don’t assume, don’t hope. But even so, she

hoped.

She paced the dining room, her silk robe whispering against her skin, the steady sound of her bare feet sliding across marble. Every so often, she checked the window, pulled the curtain aside to peer down the drive. Darkness. No headlights.

The candles wavered. The food stayed warm under their glass covers. She had timed everything carefully, as if precision could lure him home. But the longer she waited, the heavier her chest grew, pressing until it was hard to breathe.

By now, she should have known better.

Ryan didn’t come home for her. Not when she dressed for holidays. Not when nightmares pulled her awake in the night. He came when he wanted. He touched when he needed. He left when he

was done.

Still, she tried. Every year. Still, she set the table. Still, she baked the cake. Because if she stopped, if she gave up entirely, then what was left of her?

She poured herself a glass of water and sat at the table, hands folded neatly, her posture straight as if she were in church. She watched the wax drip down the candles, streaking the holders like

tears.

Her chest ached with memory.

There had been a time, before the vows, when Ryan used to laugh with her. Small things, a crooked grin when she stumbled, a teasing remark when she read in the backseat of the car. A boyish ease

that vanished the day her father lit the match and burned both their lives down.

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< 06 The Birthday That Wasn’t

That boy was gone.

The man who replaced him never forgave her. Never forgave himself.

The door clicked open.

+25 Points

Eve froze, her hand tightening around the stem of her glass. She smoothed her robe, brushed her hair back with trembling fingers, and stepped lightly into the foyer, keeping her face calm.

Ryan entered like he always did: tailored suit, shirt crisp, not a wrinkle out of place. He looked like he’d walked off the cover of a magazine, sharp, precise, untouchable. His expression didn’t change

when he saw her.

His gaze flicked toward the table. The candles. The cake. The waiting.

“What’s all this?” His tone was flat.

She forced a small smile. “I thought we could have dinner. Just the two of us.”

“Happy birthday.”

He stared at her. For a moment, no expression crossed his face. Then he glanced back at the table, at the gift, the candles, the food she had kept warm for hours.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said.

“I wanted to.”

He loosened his tie, dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, and stepped further into the room. The faint scent of cologne and whiskey followed him, sharp against the sweetness of the cake.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. “I ate already.”

Her lips parted. Her body went still.

“I just thought… maybe tonight we could,”

“You don’t have to try so hard, Eve.” His voice was quiet, precise, like a scalpel. “This isn’t real. You

know that.”

Her throat tightened. The air shifted between them But she only nodded, her face steady even as

her heart cracked inside her chest.

“I know,” she whispered.

He looked at her once more, not cruelly, not even angrily. Just tired. Empty. Then he walked past the table, past her, up the stairs without a backward glance.

Eve stood in the doorway, her shoulders straight, her hands loose at her sides. The silence filled in behind him, thick and suffocating. She listened to his footsteps retreating above her, each one pulling further away from the meal, the candles, from her.

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06 The Birthday That Wasn’t

Her gaze drifted back to the table.

+25 Points

The chicken, tender and perfect, untouched. The potatoes, still creamy, cooling. The cake, waiting

for someone to cut the first slice.

She pulled out a chair and sat down, spine stiff, as if refusing to collapse under the weight of it.

She looked at the candles. Fifteen flames danced, fragile and stubborn.

She leaned forward, closed her eyes.

“Happy day,” she whispered.

She blew the candles out one by one, the smoke curling in the dark like ghosts.

Her tears came quietly. Not sobs, not a breakdown, just the slow, steady slip of grief she had carried too long. They slid down her cheeks, pooling at the corners of her mouth. They tasted like.

wax and salt.

She cut a slice of cake with careful hands, placed it neatly on a plate, and pushed the rest away.

She lifted her fork and took a bite.

Too sweet.

She swallowed anyway.

The room stayed still. The silence thickened.

Somewhere upstairs, Ryan sat in his room, tie discarded, the faint scent of rosemary still clinging to his shirt. He stared at the wall, blank, his mind circling the image of her at the table, the echo of her voice whispering happy birthday still in his ears.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t move.

And he hated himself for wishing he had.

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