Her heart clenched painfully, as though gripped by an invisible hand. A Lump rose in her throat, hot and bitter. Her chest ached with the weight of everything unspoken.

That cold, unyielding man.. How could he treat her so harshly?

Swallowing hard, she pushed back the ache rising behind her eyes and forced herself to breathe.

Slowly, she placed her phone aside and lay down beside him.

But not beside him, exactly. She shifted all the way to the edge of the bed, her back to him, as far as the mattress would allow. The distance between them might as well have been a canyon.

The blanket barely covered her slim figure. With a quiet huff of frustration, she bit down on her lower lip and yanked it toward her, wrapping it tightly around herself in defiance.

Lyndon lay still, flat on his back, eyes shut, attempting to center his thoughts. He tried to ignore the chill creeping across his chest-until it became too obvious to disregard.

Opening his eyes, he turned his head slightly and saw Tilda's back turned to him, her shoulders rigid, her body curled away like a fortress.

The night stretched on. Bathed in the faint silver glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains, he gazed at her, his brow furrowed with something that hovered between frustration and Longing.

After a long moment of stillness, he broke the silence. "Did you take the blanket because you want me to hold you?" he asked dryly. "Isn't that supposed to disgust you?" So, he finally decided to speak?

Tilda let out a bitter, mocking laugh, sharp and hollow. She didn't bother turning around.

Her voice was flat. "Don't flatter yourself. I've always had terrible sleeping habits. If you're uncomfortable, sleep on the floor. I'm not forcing you to share this bed."

Lyndon's jaw tensed, his expression darkening like a gathering storm.

The floor? Was that how little she wanted him near? "This is my bed," he replied, his tone cool, clipped.

Oh, so that was it. He was staking his claim, implying that if anyone should leave, it was her.

Tilda scoffed softly under her breath, her pride wounded, but she didn't retaliate with words. Instead, she threw back the blanket and sat up with slow deliberation. "Then I'1UL sleep on the floor."

Defiant and graceful even in her hurt, she moved to rise, but Lyndon's expression darkened further.

He reached out, pulling her back onto the bed with one swift motion, then leaned over her, his weight pinning her down.

His tall, imposing frame hovered over hers, the heat of his body close enough to make her breath catch. She struggled beneath him, her heart pounding.

"Lyndon, get off me!" she snapped, her voice laced with fury and desperation.

He didn't budge. Instead, he gazed into her face—stormy, stubborn, beautiful even in anger. His voice dropped low, rough with emotion. "Do you really have to talk to me like this?"

Tilda turned her face away, unwilling to meet his gaze. "I have always been like this."

He stared at her, searching her face for a hint of affection but found only a wall. After a heavy pause, he asked hoarsely, "Have you always hated me this much?"

Hate him? How could he not know her feelings for him? Tilda's chest rose and fell in silence. She didn't answer.