Victor noticed the silence before he noticed her absence.
Mia no longer argued. She no longer protested. She simply existed around him, letting him do as he pleased. For the first time, it unsettled him.
He had tried to make her talk—commands, questions, even forced proximity—but Mia remained distant. Quiet. Detached.
I own her, Victor reminded himself.
This house was his. The people in it were his. Mia was his wife. Monitoring her movements was not cruelty—it was control. And control, he believed, was care. He had every right to know where she went, what she ate, how she spent her time. She should be grateful. He provided a roof over her head, clothes on her body, everything she needed.
Still, it did not change how deeply it hurt her—to know her footsteps were being written down like crimes.
Every morning, Mia woke early, took her shower, and prepared breakfast for Victor. The meal was always served by the chief maid. For three days, Mia and Victor barely set eyes on each other.
"Where's my wife?" Victor asked one morning.
"She's in her room, sir," the chief maid replied.
Victor frowned. What is she even feeling like? he wondered. She was his. Yet her silence felt like a distance he could not cross.
Mia, on the other hand, hated control. She believed marriage should not feel like a battlefield or a prison. Victor believed otherwise.
That evening, when Victor returned from work, he found Mia sitting on the compound swing. A book rested on her lap, music sealed in her ears. She had not noticed him approaching.
When she finally looked up, it was already too late.
Victor reached for her wrist and pulled her to her feet. The sudden closeness stole her breath. Their faces hovered inches apart, his presence overwhelming, unavoidable.
For days, he had replayed her silence in his mind. For days, he had convinced himself she needed reminding—of who he was to her.
He kissed her.
Not gently. Not with permission.
His hand locked around her waist as if to anchor her in place, his mouth claiming hers with an urgency that bordered on desperation. For a brief second, he forgot everything except the power of her nearness.
Mia stiffened. Her body rejected the moment even as her mind raced. She pushed against his chest and tore herself free.
"Don't," she whispered—more warning than plea.
She rushed upstairs without looking back.
Victor stood there, shaken—not by her refusal, but by how powerless he had felt the moment she pulled away. He went up to his room and took a shower, but even the water could not wash away the memory of her lips. Thirty minutes passed before he dressed and went downstairs for dinner.
He asked that Mia be invited to eat with him.
When she came down, Victor's eyes never left her. He ate in silence, studying her, while Mia focused on her plate.
Mia didn't think much about the kiss. Victor's moods shifted often, and she had learned not to trust moments of softness. She took it as another expression of his ownership.
The next day was Sunday. Victor couldn't get the kiss out of his head. For the first time, he gathered the courage to do something different.
Victor went to Mia's room and sat down. The conversation that followed was calm—unnervingly calm.
"Mia, you need to understand that I am only trying to protect you," Victor said. "You shouldn't be seen everywhere. You are my wife."
"Protect me?" Mia replied quietly. "Victor, this isn't protection. This is control. I don't want my footsteps monitored. I am a grown woman. I can take care of myself."
Victor said nothing after that. Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable. Neither of them mentioned the kiss they had shared earlier, yet it lingered heavily in the room. It had meant far more to Victor than he was willing to admit. In that moment, something unsettling dawned on him—he loved Mia.
But Victor refused to acknowledge the feeling. He buried it where he buried everything else that made him feel vulnerable.
The next morning, Mia pleaded with Victor to let her visit her father. It had been a long time since she had seen him. The request made Victor uneasy—he had kept Mia close for far too long—but after a brief pause, he agreed. He ordered Scott to accompany her.
When they arrived at Mr. William's compound, Mia stepped out of the car immediately and ran into her father's arms, tears filling her eyes. He understood without words. The weight of guilt crushed him—his daughter was suffering because of his inability to repay the money he had taken from Victor.
"My dearest," he said softly, holding her close, "I am so sorry. I failed you as a father. I never wanted you to cry because of me."
Mia sobbed quietly as he continued, "Life has its own way of bringing us to where we are meant to be. Look at you, my Mimi—you look stronger than you did eight months ago. Please be patient with him. He will come around."
Mia wiped her tears and nodded. Before leaving, she gave her father the little cash she had managed to save and asked Scott to hand over the foodstuffs she had brought in the trunk.
Two hours later, Mia returned to the mansion. On the drive back, her father's words replayed in her mind. She wiped away the last of her tears and resolved, quietly, to be patient with Victor—just a little longer.