Married To Darkness - Chapter 497
Chapter 497: her silent treatment
Was everything Eva said true?
The question gnawed like a worm in her chest—slow, ugly, relentless. Salviana walked down the corridor with her head held high, each step controlled, elegant, betraying none of the storm under her ribs.
Her breaths were too shallow. Her throat hurt. Her chest felt tight.
Jean Goliath followed behind her with perfect silence, not daring to speak. And Salviana silently thanked the gods for that.
If Jean had asked “Are you alright?” she would have shattered right there in the hallway.
She needed to be alone. She needed the dress off her body. She needed to sleep, to scrub the humiliation off her skin.
But of course the thoughts wouldn’t leave her.
Eva’s words echoed like poison:
He loves what my lips do for him.
We were intimate.
He probably visited her often, she seems confident.
Every step stabbed deeper.
She reached her chambers’ door, fingers trembling against the handle—but the weight in her chest was too heavy.
She couldn’t be in that room.
Not yet. It smelled like him. Felt like him.
She didn’t want to see anything that reminded her of the one person who could destroy her with a truth or a lie.
She turned around sharply. Her eyes lifted—and Alaric was already there.
He had spotted her the moment she entered the corridor. He had moved without hesitation, worry in every line of his face. But now he stood still, watching her face closely, and something in his expression shifted.
He saw it.
He saw that something was wrong.
“Salviana—”
His voice was soft, careful.
She ignored him, walking past with the same cold, elegant composure she used at the palace balls, the one that hid bruises and heartbreak.
Jean quickly stepped aside, practically flattening herself against the wall. She did not want to be questioned by the prince.
And Alaric didn’t ask.
He didn’t even look at her.
His eyes were fixed on Salviana.
He followed silently.
She made her way toward the palace garden, the warm afternoon sun brushing her shoulders. She walked straight to the stone bench near the hydrangeas—the one she always sat on when needing space to think.
She lowered herself onto it, her gown pooling around her feet, her eyes fixed empty and unblinking on the flowers.
She didn’t sigh. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move.
She simply sat in perfect stillness, looking at nothing.
Alaric approached cautiously, like she was something fragile… or dangerous.
He sat beside her, leaving a respectful space, his amber eyes studying her profile.
Her expression was blank. Too blank.
He felt his chest tighten. He wished he had gone with her. He wished he had stood behind her, hand on her shoulder, reminding everyone in that salon that the Seventh Princess was not to be toyed with.
But he hadn’t. He’d been gone, fighting monsters in another realm while someone else’s words had struck the deepest blow.
He swallowed.
“Tea?” he asked quietly.
Nothing.
She didn’t blink. Didn’t tilt her head. Didn’t even acknowledge his voice.
Alaric hesitated, then stood, crossed to the little side table under the pergola, and prepared her favorite tea himself.
He brought it back, kneeling so he could offer it gently into her line of sight.
Still nothing. Her fingers didn’t lift. Her gaze didn’t shift.
He set the cup on the stone beside her with slow care.
A soft breeze rustled the flowers. Birds chirped somewhere above. The fountain hummed quietly.
But Salviana sat like she had been carved from stone, eyes distant, hands folded stiffly over her dress.
Alaric’s heart twisted. He didn’t know what happened.
But he knew—
He felt—
that someone had hurt her.
And every second of her silence sliced him open from the inside.
He sat back down, closer this time, hands resting on his knees, bending slightly toward her.
“Salviana…” he tried again, softer, deeper, voice edged with worry.
Still nothing. Not a flinch. Not a breath out of place.
The sunlight touched her hair, making the red jewels sparkle, but her eyes remained empty—vacant.
Like someone had reached inside her chest and shut a door.
He swallowed, his voice trembling despite himself.
“…tell me what happened.”
But she didn’t. Because if she opened her mouth—
even once— she wasn’t sure anything but heartbreak would come out.
“Do you perhaps want a milkshake?”
His voice was soft—hesitant, almost. A tone he rarely used.
Salviana did not blink. She stared straight ahead at the lilies, her hands folded neatly in her lap like a doll someone had forgotten to wind.
Alaric swallowed.
“Do you… wanna garden?” he tried again, clearing his throat as though a different pitch might unlock her.
Silence.
He shifted beside her. The garden breeze tugged at a few loose strands of her hair, and he instinctively reached out—then stopped halfway, hand suspended, unsure if touching her would make things better… or shatter her entirely.
“Isn’t the weather nice?”
Nothing.
Her jaw looked painfully tight, as if it was the only thing holding her whole world from falling apart. She did not look angry; she looked gone.
He exhaled through his nose, heart starting to pound. “You want your hair tied up?”
Another try. Another failure.
His hand dropped to his knee.
“We could garden today,” he added quietly, almost pleading now. “Or sit. Or walk. Or… anything.”
Nada.
Salviana was a statue carved from heartbreak and suspicion and the kind of fear he didn’t yet understand.
The silence grew so heavy it felt alive—like it pressed against the walls of the garden and pushed the air out of his lungs. Alaric felt it, felt her distance like something sharp lodged beneath his ribs.
He wasn’t used to this.
He was used to Salviana smiling carefully, or arguing with clipped grace, or lecturing him about manners.
He was used to her glow—bright in a way he never deserved.
Not… this emptiness.
He tried again, gentler. “Salviana, please say something.”
Her eyes didn’t even flicker.
For the first time since he sat down, he truly saw her expression. Not anger. Not annoyance. Not stubbornness.
Pain. Deep, bone-drawn pain. The type someone tries to hide by going perfectly still.
Alaric felt a subtle chill crawl across his skin.
“What happened?” he whispered. “Who hurt you?”
Still nothing.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlacing in front of his mouth as he fought to stay patient. He wanted to shake her—beg her—just to look at him. But he knew better. He knew she was drowning in something that silence alone could hold together.
He shifted again, trying to read her face from a different angle.
“Salviana… if you don’t want to talk to me, just—just nod. Or move your hand. Anything.”
She didn’t move.
Not a twitch.
Alaric’s heart sank.
This wasn’t her ignoring him.
This was her breaking.
And for the first time since the wedding, a flicker of panic stirred in his chest.
Not anger.
Not possessiveness.
Fear.
Fear that something had been said.
Fear that someone had planted poison in her mind.
Fear that he was losing her before he ever truly had her.
He rubbed his palm over his face, took a breath, and tried one last time—voice stripped raw:
“Tell me what they said so I can fix it.”
Her lips parted, barely—like a breath was trying to escape.
But no words came.
Just silence.
And that silence stabbed deeper than any accusation.
Alaric stared at her… and for the first time realized:
Whatever happened at that tea party wasn’t small.
It wasn’t gossip.
It was a wound.
A wound with his name tied to it.
And Salviana was bleeding quietly, and she wasn’t pretending she wasn’t.
She just couldn’t talk.