Not a single word was exchanged throughout the entire journey. The silence between them was deafening—cold, stiff, unfamiliar. They looked less like a married couple and more like strangers forced to share a row. Even when the plane touched down and they stepped into the arrival hall, the silence clung to them like a curse.
For Skye, this was the farthest she had ever gone from home. Her body was unprepared for the brutal time difference, and jet lag hit her like a freight train. Her eyelids drooped with the weight of exhaustion, her head spun, and her limbs dragged as if her bones had been replaced with lead. She kept lowering her head, fighting a losing battle against sleep that crashed into her in relentless waves.
Sean had been watching her with the same unreadable expression the entire time, unmoved. But finally, as she swayed slightly on her feet, he broke the silence—with words as sharp as a blade.
"How long do you plan on sulking like this?" he said coldly, his tone devoid of warmth, his voice cutting through the air like ice. His face didn't flinch—still carved in stone, still merciless. A marble statue could have shown more compassion than the man standing beside her.
Skye didn't answer. Not because she wanted to ignore him, but because her body had nothing left to give. Even a single word felt impossibly heavy. She only bowed her head lower, as if that could somehow still the spinning in her skull.
Sean exhaled sharply, the sound heavy with restrained frustration. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing more. In one fluid motion, he bent down and lifted her into his arms.
She was light—far too light. For a second, he stilled, arms tightening instinctively as the realization settled in. There was something unsettling about the way she felt in his grasp, like she could break apart if he wasn't careful. Fragile. Fading.
Skye stirred, just barely. Her lashes fluttered weakly as she was lifted from the ground. She wanted to resist, to insist she could still stand on her own, but her limbs wouldn't obey. Even the thought of moving felt distant, unreachable. Her breath came in shallow waves, and her eyes remained half-closed.
With no strength left, she let herself collapse against Sean's chest—quiet, powerless, and unwillingly vulnerable. He didn't look at her. Didn't say a word. Just held her with arms that felt like stone, and a heart just as cold.
With one arm, Sean carried Skye in a side cradle—like a child too tired to stay awake. Her body was supported securely against his chest and arm, while his other hand gripped the handles of two large suitcases. One was his. The other, Skye's. Both felt heavy. He had no idea what was inside them; all the departure preparations had been handled by his personal assistant.
His steps were swift and firm, though slightly unsteady under the weight of both luggage and the woman in his arms. He hated inconvenience. Despised it, even. But strangely, he didn't complain. Something deep within him refused to leave Skye in that fragile state.
The airport buzzed with noise and movement, but Sean heard none of it. His focus narrowed to a single point: get Skye somewhere she could rest. He was exhausted too, but for reasons he couldn't explain, he couldn't let her fall.
Passengers turned as they passed, eyes drawn to the unusual sight—a man in a black suit, his gaze sharp as a blade, hauling two heavy suitcases while carrying an unconscious young woman in his arms. But Sean paid no attention to their stares. He didn't even notice when a small child nearly collided with him. His stride never wavered. There was no space for hesitation, no room to stop.
He reached the airport exit. Their private driver was already waiting, eyes wide at the scene before him, quickly stepping in to take the suitcases.
"Open the door. Now," Sean ordered curtly, not even glancing at the driver.
As soon as the car door opened, Sean slowly lowered Skye onto the back seat, wrapping her in his own coat—now warmer than before. He didn't say a word. He only looked at her for a few seconds, as if making sure her chest still rose and fell with every breath.
He sat beside her, turning slightly to face the window, letting the silence stretch between them while Skye kept her eyes shut, lost in the haze of jetlag.
Night had fallen deeper by the time they arrived at their destination—a pre-booked boutique hotel nestled in the heart of Paris. The building was adorned with intricate carvings and bathed in soft, golden light that gave it a romantic charm—ironic, considering how far Skye's heart was from feeling anything close to that.
The receptionist greeted them with a polite smile, handing over two keycards. Sean took both without a word, then handed one to Skye.
"Room 507. I'm in 511," he said flatly.
Skye blinked at him, mildly surprised. Not disappointed—if anything, the opposite. She gave a faint nod and accepted the keycard without question. There was nothing to protest. If Sean had decided not to stay in the room they were supposed to share as husband and wife, then she was more than grateful.
After taking the elevator to the fifth floor, they walked in silence down the corridor, the soft carpet muffling their footsteps. They stopped in front of their respective rooms. Sean unlocked Skye's door and pushed it open. He set her suitcase down beside a small sofa inside the room. Then, without saying a single word, he turned and left.
The door clicked shut. Skye stood at the threshold of her room, letting out a slow, steady breath. Only then did she realize how deeply relief bloomed in her chest.
No bed to share tonight.No forced embrace.No newlywed obligations.
Still fully dressed, she let herself fall onto the plush mattress. Her eyes met the carved ceiling above—roses etched in soft, delicate curves. This wasn't the Paris she had once dreamed of, but at least, for tonight, she could sleep alone. And that, in itself, was enough to make her feel safe.