Chapter 8

Chloe reached for the doorknob, her fingers trembling slightly against the cool metal. "In the future," Noah said, his voice earnest but underscored by a distinct layer of discomfort, "try to avoid walking around the house in your pajamas." Chloe froze. She looked down at the soft fabric of her sleepwear, realizing with a sudden, searing heat in her cheeks that she wasn't wearing a bra underneath. The thin material offered little in the way of modesty. "I... I understand," she stammered. She didn't wait for his reply, ducking into her room and slamming the door behind her with a sharp click that echoed in the hallway. Noah remained in the corridor for a moment, his gaze fixed on the closed door. He hadn't intended to be harsh, but the idea of any other man—be it a delivery driver or a guest—catching a glimpse of his wife in such a state of undress sat ill with him. He let out a slow breath, surprised by his own relief. He was pleased that Chloe had understood the hint immediately. He had braced himself for a woman who might use their legal status to push for more, perhaps even insist on sharing his bed under the guise of marital rights. Instead, she had retreated without a word of protest. It was a reprieve from the pressure he had expected to face. In the silence of his own room, Noah considered what he knew of her. For years, Chloe had functioned as a primary caregiver in her sister's household. She had been the invisible engine, lightening Olivia's load at every turn. Yet, it was clear that her brother-in-law had viewed her less as family and more as a convenient, unpaid nanny. Moving out was more than a change of address for her; it was a resignation from a post she had held too long. Inside her new bedroom, Chloe sat on the edge of the mattress. The space was unfamiliar, the air lacking the lived-in scent of her sister's home, but it was hers. She had expected to toss and turn, yet exhaustion had claimed her. When she woke the next morning, the sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains. She sat up abruptly, her mind already racing through a checklist of morning chores—breakfast for the kids, helping Olivia with the laundry, prepping the kitchen. Then, the stillness of the house settled over her. There was no sound of a crying toddler or the heavy footsteps of her brother-in-law. She didn't need to rush. She tried to lay back down, pulling the duvet to her chin, but her internal clock was an unforgiving mechanism. After years of early rises, her body refused to accept the luxury of sleep. The silence eventually gave way to the low rumble of her stomach. Hunger, more than habit, finally drove her out of bed. She dressed quickly this time, ensuring she was fully covered before venturing out. The kitchen was as pristine and empty as she had left it the night before. The high-end appliances were mere ornaments without the tools to use them. Remembering the neighborhood layout from her move, she recalled a breakfast spot not far from the Briarwood gates. She slipped out quietly, enjoying the crisp morning air. When she reached the local eatery, the variety of Wiltspoonese breakfast staples made her realize how long it had been since she hadn't been the one doing the cooking. She opted for a wide selection: steamed buns, deep-fried dough sticks, savory rice rolls, and containers of fresh soy milk. It was a feast compared to her usual toast on the go. As she made her way back to the villa, she thought of Noah. He had been out late the previous night, but he struck her as the type of man who maintained a rigid schedule regardless of the hour he went to bed. Carrying the bags of warm food, Chloe pushed open the front door. At the same moment, Noah stepped out of his bedroom. He was bare-chested. The sight stopped Chloe in her tracks. His torso was a map of lean, defined muscle—abs carved with athletic precision. Noah, clearly unaccustomed to the presence of a wife in his private sanctuary, had forgotten her existence for a split second. He usually spent his time in this villa alone, and he was the type of man who felt comfortable going shirtless when he was feeling a bit cheeky or simply at ease in his own space. The moment he saw her, his eyes widened. He didn't say a word, but his posture went rigid. He pivoted on his heel with military efficiency and retreated back into his room, the door shutting with a decisive thud. Chloe stood in the entryway, the smell of fried dough rising from the bags in her hands. A giggle bubbled up in her throat, and she didn't bother to suppress it. "Honestly, what's so fascinating about a man's bare torso?" she murmured to herself, heading toward the dining area. "It's just abs. I can't believe he covered up like that. Haha, that was hilarious!" She began unpacking the food, setting the table with a sense of amusement. She was more than willing to cater to his food preferences, provided he actually came out to eat. Ten minutes later, Noah emerged. He was fully dressed now, his shirt buttoned to the collar, his expression a mask of cool indifference as if the previous encounter had never happened. However, his eyes drifted to the spread on the table. He was starving, his body demanding fuel after a long night and a morning workout he'd performed in his room. As the head of the Hayeses household, Noah moved in circles where breakfast was usually a continental affair or a high-end catered event. He had never truly indulged in the greasy, soul-warming staples of Wiltspoonese street food. He pulled out a chair, his nose wrinkling slightly at the scent of the fried dough sticks. "Don't you know how to cook?" he asked. His voice was blunt, his gaze moving from the plastic containers to Chloe. Chloe sat opposite him, undeterred. "I do! I'm quite a good cook." Noah gestured vaguely at the table. "Store-bought breakfast is unhygienic. You should cook your own meals rather than bringing this into the house." Chloe didn't flinch. She picked up a pair of chopsticks and began dividing the portions, ensuring half of each dish was placed on a plate for him. "Your kitchen is empty, Noah. I can't cook without tools and ingredients. I'm a chef, not a magician." The sarcasm in her tone was direct, a sharp contrast to the way most people spoke to him. Noah looked at the plate she pushed toward him. He wanted to maintain his disapproval, but the steam rising from the rice rolls was persuasive. He picked up his utensils and took a bite, his silence serving as a reluctant admission that the food was, at the very least, edible. "I ordered kitchen utensils yesterday," Chloe said, watching him eat. "I'll cook properly once they arrive. I'm not a fan of takeout every day either; I only usually order it when I'm working through lunch at my shop." Noah nodded, his movements measured as he ate. He seemed to be relaxing, if only marginally. "Since we're talking about the house," Chloe continued, "is it alright if I decorate the space to my taste? It's a bit... clinical right now." Noah didn't look up from his meal. "This is your home now, too. You can decorate it as you wish." He paused, his fork hovering. "But don't touch my room. My private space stays exactly as it is." "Of course," Chloe said, a bright smile breaking across her face. She was genuinely pleased with his approval. In her mind, she was already stripping away the coldness of the villa. She envisioned a balcony filled with blooms, perhaps a comfortable swing where she could lounge during her rare free time, reading a book and enjoying the scent of flowers. She wanted to turn this house into a sanctuary. They ate in a more comfortable silence for a few minutes before Chloe remembered the most pressing item on her agenda. "Dorothy Hayes called," Chloe said. "She asked us to come back this weekend for dinner. She wants us to meet the rest of the family properly." Noah's expression shifted, his brow furrowing slightly. "I'll let you know," he said quietly. "I need to check my schedule first. I have several meetings pending." Chloe set her chopsticks down. She wasn't going to let him slide into a noncommittal "maybe." "Let's set a firm time for this, Noah," she said, her voice proactive and insistent. "It's important to your grandmother. If we give her a time, I'll ask Dorothy Hayes to bring my parents over as well. We should do this right." Noah looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. The domesticity of the morning was starting to feel real, and with it came the weight of the family expectations he had tried so hard to manage. He didn't answer immediately, his mind seemingly weighing the intrusion of a family dinner against the peaceful arrangement they had cultivated over fried dough and soy milk. ════════════════════════════════════════