Chapter 8 Quiet Between Voices
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Morning light spilled across the dining hall, soft and deceptively calm. The long mahogany table gleamed under the crystal chandelier, silver cutlery lined with precision, the Valmere signature of perfection.
The brothers were already gathered. Steam rose from cups of black coffee, the faint scent of buttered toast and roasted almonds drifting through the air. Conversations overlapped, casual but calculated, the rhythm of men who ruled empires before breakfast.
Knight sat at the far end, the one nearest the window. He hadn’t slept.
The dark circles beneath his eyes were faint, barely visible to anyone but himself, but the exhaustion in his gaze betrayed him. He stirred his coffee absently, not tasting it, not really there. His body sat with them, but his mind was still on that balcony.
The kiss. The look in her eyes. The way she trembled when he told her to stop.
Caelum’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Knight, did you confirm the shareholder schedule for Dubai?”
A beat of silence. Knight blinked, realizing Caelum was looking directly at him.
“Knight?”
He straightened slightly, forcing his voice steady. “Yes. I’ve already reviewed it.”
Caelum raised a brow. “You mean Aston reviewed it, didn’t he?”
Lysander smirked from across the table. “You’re off your game, bro. That’s the third time you’ve zoned out this morning. I could swear you’re thinking about stocks or women. Maybe both.”
The table chuckled lightly. Knight didn’t.
His jaw flexed, but he said nothing. He took another sip of his untouched coffee, its surface rippling faintly as his hand tightened around the cup.
He wasn’t thinking about stocks. Or women. Just one woman.
Deborah.
She hadn’t come down for breakfast, and that alone spoke volumes. Normally, she’d arrive late but graceful, teasing them for their lack of manners before the press briefings. Today, her seat was empty.
And all Knight could think about was the look she gave him last night, the shock, the disbelief, the flicker of pain before she turned away.
Aston’s voice cut in, dragging him back. “We should review the final reports for London’s branch. The investors are asking about the next quarter’s integration plan.”
“Knight,” Caelum said again, his tone firmer, “I need your signature on the Geneva contract this afternoon. The Board trusts you to handle it directly. You’re unusually quiet, something wrong?”
Knight’s fingers tightened around his pen. The smallest movement of his hand betrayed the storm he was hiding.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said flatly.
But his voice lacked conviction.
Lucio leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You’re lying. You only use that tone when something is wrong.”
Knight met his gaze, his expression unreadable. “Then maybe I’ve just stopped caring about tone.”
Caelum frowned. “Knight—”
“I said I’m fine,” he interrupted softly.
The room stilled for a moment. Even the quiet hum of the city outside seemed to pause. The brothers exchanged brief looks, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word. Caelum’s eyes narrowed, Lysander’s smirk faded, Lucio’s posture stiffened. But they didn’t push further. Not yet.
Knight was the fortress among them. The unshakable one. If something was bothering him, they knew better than to ask twice.
But inside, he was barely holding it together.
He kept seeing her. The way her hand lingered on Luther’s chest. The whisper of their laughter before the kiss. He’d stood there, silent, telling himself to look away. But he hadn’t. He’d watched. And it killed him.
He told her to stop, told her it couldn’t happen again, but the guilt gnawed at him. It wasn’t just betrayal of family rules or empire pride. It was the knowledge that she’d looked happy for the first time in years… and he’d destroyed that.
Caelum’s voice pulled him back once more. “Knight, you’ll meet with the London representatives at eleven. Make sure everything’s in order before the announcement.”
Knight nodded. “Understood.”
But the words sounded mechanical, empty.
He set the cup down carefully, stood, and adjusted his suit jacket. “I’ll handle the rest from my office.”
As he turned to leave, Lysander called out, half-joking, “Try not to look so grim, brother. It’s morning, not a funeral.”
Knight paused in the doorway. The light from the window caught his face just enough to show the faintest, most fleeting smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Some mornings feel like both,” he said quietly.
Then he walked out, leaving a faint echo of silence in his wake.
The corridors of the Valmere estate stretched endlessly ahead of him, high ceilings, tall windows, the faint scent of marble polish and roses. Everything was in order, as always. Everything but him.
He passed by a maid carrying fresh linens, a secretary hurrying to the east wing, a pair of guards nodding respectfully. None of them noticed the storm beneath his calm exterior.
He reached the far hallway, the one that led to Deborah’s quarters. He stopped for a long moment, staring at the closed door. Behind it, he could almost imagine her, sitting by the window, pretending to read reports while trying not to cry.
He wanted to knock. To say something. Anything.
But he didn’t.
He turned away instead, his voice barely a whisper meant only for the empty hall.
“I’m sorry, Deb.” Then, softer, so soft it almost vanished between heartbeats, “But I had to. For your own safety, for your own sake."
He walked away, his footsteps steady, his expression carved back into stone.
But his heart stayed behind that door, beating quietly for a truth he’d never speak.