His Silent Obsession：Afraid to Stay, Forbidden to Leave

Della Dalton watched the hands of the wall clock crawl toward midnight. On the table, the dinner she had prepared had long since gone cold.

She carried the dishes back into the kitchen to reheat them, one by one.

At 12:50 AM, the sound of the front door turning echoed through the silent apartment. She looked up. Owen Osborne was home.

He had his suit jacket draped over one arm, his handsome features slightly blurred by intoxication as he walked toward her. Della stood up and poured a bowl of sobering soup, but as she reached out to offer it to him, he swatted it aside, sending the liquid splashing across the floor.

Before she could react, his hand clamped onto her jaw, and he crushed his lips against hers.

The sharp sting of alcohol flooded her senses, laced with the cloying, floral scent of another woman’s perfume. Della pushed against his chest, but he didn't budge. Instead, he swept her off her feet and carried her directly into the bedroom.

He threw her onto the bed with a rough indifference and hovered over her, not uttering a single word. Della bit her lip, enduring him in silence. She turned her head away, her eyes fixing on a potted plant in the corner of the room.

There was no affection in his touch. It was pure, unadulterated consumption.

Owen grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him. His dark, deep-set eyes searched hers as his thumb traced the line of her cheek. "Why don't you ever say anything?"

Della stared at him, her eyes misting over. He knew why. He knew she couldn't speak.

She was a mute.

Yet, he asked the same question every time, with a persistence that bordered on obsession. Sometimes, Della couldn't tell if he was trying to humiliate her or if he was simply lamenting her silence.

She reached up, covering his hand with hers, and tilted her head to nuzzle into his palm like a kitten trying to please its master. It was the only way she knew how to respond to him during these moments.

Owen’s pupils darkened, a surging tide of something unreadable flickering in his gaze. He pinned her hands above her head and leaned down to kiss her again, deeper this time.

When Della opened her eyes, the sun was already up. The space beside her was empty, though the sound of running water drifted from the bathroom.

She gathered her clothes from the floor and began to dress. As she was reaching for her final layer, the phone on the nightstand vibrated. It was Owen’s.

Della glanced at the blurred silhouette through the frosted glass of the bathroom door, then back at the screen.

Kelsey Kendal: Are you back?

Kelsey Kendal: You do this every time. Is it really necessary to go back to that mute just to spite me?

Della’s eyelashes trembled.

The bathroom door opened, and Owen stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. Steam clung to his skin, and water droplets fell from the tips of his damp hair, tracing the lines of his abdominal muscles before disappearing into the towel. Della averted her eyes, focusing intently on buttoning her shirt.

Owen walked to the bed, picked up his phone, and spared a glance at her.

"Did you see it?"

A small, practiced smile touched the corners of Della’s mouth. She shook her head.

On their wedding day, he had given her a warning: "Stay obedient, Della. Don't fall in love with me. We'll keep things as they were, and I'll take care of you for the rest of your life as a brother would."

He told her not to love him.

So what if she had seen the message? He didn't care if she was jealous, or hurt, or drowning in sorrow. A person who wasn't cared for had no right to be angry. If anything, her love and her emotions would only be a burden to him.

She was terrified that he might trample over what was left of her heart. Della was afraid... that he would decide he didn't want her anymore.

She signed with her hands: I’ll go make breakfast.

Her body ached as she forced herself out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Owen watched her thin, fragile back disappear through the doorway before looking down at his phone. He deleted Kelsey’s messages.

Della finished the breakfast and set the table, placing a bowl of porridge at Owen’s seat. After a while, he emerged, fully dressed, and sat down.

The room was suffocatingly quiet. Owen had once remarked that being with her felt like talking to himself. Eventually, he had stopped trying. Now, the only sound was the occasional clink of a spoon against a porcelain bowl.

"We're going to the Osborne Estate later," Owen said suddenly.

Della’s hand froze. She rested her spoon against the rim of the bowl.

Della: Okay.

Owen glanced at her. Her face wore that same, unchanging mask of docility. She never argued, never caused a scene, and no matter how much she suffered, she always met the world with a gentle smile.

Suddenly, the porridge tasted like ash in his mouth. He dropped his spoon back into the bowl with a sharp clatter that rang out through the silent dining room.