Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You
Chapter 177: Back Home

Chapter 177: Back Home

Rebecca

The drive is quiet.

Not the comfortable kind of quiet we usually fall into where we hold hands. No.

Marcus hasn’t looked at me in the last ten minutes. His jaw’s clenched, one hand gripping the steering wheel like it might fly away if he lets go.

The air between us feels heavier.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His expression is flat, but not calm. It’s the kind of blank that’s hiding something—something sharp and too close to the surface.

"Marcus," I say softly.

He doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay fixed on the road like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.

"What?"

That one word is short. Not cruel, exactly. Just... hollow. Like he’s already pulled away from me and shut the door behind him.

I fight the instinct to shrink back. Instead, I rest my hand gently over his on the gearshift.

"I’m here," I say. "With you. Okay?"

His jaw works, but he doesn’t say anything. Not right away.

I wait.

Then, after a beat, his hand flips under mine and squeezes.

"I know," he murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel. "I’m just... not good at this."

"Being a broody road trip companion?" I tease lightly, trying to coax out even a hint of a smile.

Nothing.

"I’m sorry," he finally says, his voice tight.

He didn’t tell me what happened to him. I didn’t ask. He’ll tell me when he’s ready—or maybe he won’t. But I already know whatever waits for us at the end of this drive is something that put cracks in him long before I showed up.

We fall back into silence.

I keep our hands joined as the town blurs past the windows.

Then we turn a corner, and I know without him saying a word, we are close.

The houses on this street are smaller, older. Faded paint, sagging porches, yards strangled with weeds. One of them stands out only because of how much it doesn’t: a two-story box of a home with shuttered windows and a cracked driveway that looks like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

Marcus pulls in without a word.

He cuts the engine, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

I glance over at him.

His hands are still on the wheel. Knuckles white. Shoulders stiff. Breathing shallow, like just being this close is pulling him under.

I don’t speak.

I just wait.

Finally, he lets out a breath and reaches for the door handle but stops.

His voice is low. "We don’t have to go in. We can leave. Right now."

"We can," I say gently. "But you didn’t come here just to turn back."

He turns to me, and there it is again, that storm in his eyes. But this time, I see something else flickering behind it. Fear. Not of me, not of the house. Of what it might pull out of him. Of who he might become if he lets those memories breathe again.

He swallows hard.

And then, slowly, he nods.

We get out together.

I release his hand for a second, but he snatches it back in his palm. "Don’t let go," he growls.

My heart stumbles in my chest.

I look down at our joined hands. His grip like iron, like I’m the only rope he has left. I nod quietly, even though he’s not looking at me.

"I won’t," I whisper.

We step toward the house. The porch groans beneath our weight. Paint peels from the railing in thin, curling strips, and the welcome mat is a faded lie. Nothing about this place feels welcoming.

Marcus stops in front of the door. I feel the tension in him, the way his body goes still—not the calm kind, but the rigid kind, like he’s back in some old nightmare.

He knocks on the door.

The door flies open as if someone had been waiting by it. A woman stands before us with black hair, piercing green eyes, and a perfect nose. "Marcus," she says in a breathy voice. "You are here." She eyes me. "Who is she?"

His whole body is tight, like the tension in him has turned to stone. He’s staring at the woman like she’s a ghost—one he never wanted to see again. And maybe she is.

I glance between them, my hand still wrapped in his. His grip hasn’t loosened. If anything, it tightens.

"Natalie," he says finally, voice flat. Devoid of the warmth or even the resentment I expected. Just...numb. "This is Rebecca, my girlfriend."

Her eyes flick to me again. "Hi," she says. "I am Marcus’s sister."

Her voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it—like ice pretending to be silk.

"Hi," I say, offering a polite smile, even though everything in me feels a little off-kilter. "It’s nice to meet you."

Natalie steps aside without saying anything else, gesturing for us to come in.

Marcus still hasn’t moved.

I look up at him. His eyes are fixed on the floor just past the threshold, like it’s a line he’s afraid to cross.

So I squeeze his hand. Just a little.

He breathes in, deep and rough, and steps inside.

The air in the house hits me like a wall. It’s too quiet. Too cold.

Everything is in order—too much order. The living room is neat, the furniture stiff, not a single cushion out of place. It looks like a showroom someone tried too hard to make feel "lived in."

Natalie closes the door behind us.

"I cleaned up," she says simply, like that explains everything. Then she turns on her heel and walks into the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"

"No," Marcus says quickly. "Where are they?" he asks.

Natalie pauses mid-step, her back still to us. "Upstairs," she says finally. "Same room."

Marcus’s jaw clenches again. I can feel it radiating off him, the way his whole body tightens like a spring about to snap.

"Come on, Rebecca," he says softly before heading up.

He doesn’t look at me the whole time, but I feel his fingers tighten around mine.

He opens the door.

I almost gasped out loud when I saw the man lying in bed. Or a ghost of a man.

He was thin—too thin. Bones sharp under paper-thin skin, eyes sunken in like the life had been drained from them long ago. A feeding tube trailed from his nose, and machines beeped in a slow, steady rhythm that made the silence in the room even louder.

The air smelled of antiseptic and something older. Rotting wood and time that had settled too long in one place.

I feel Marcus go still beside me.

He does not speak.

Does not move.

And then I realized—this wasn’t just someone sick in a bed.

This was a man who had hurt Marcus.

I don’t know the details. Marcus never told me. But I didn’t need the story. It was in the way he stood there, so rigid it looked like his body had forgotten how to breathe.

Marcus let go of my hand and took a step forward, slow and unsure, like each inch of space he crossed took something from him.

I stay where I am.

A woman comes out of the bathroom then.

She looks at Marcus, and her eyes turn wide. "Marcus," she says, her voice trembling.

He doesn’t answer.

She stands by the side of the bed and, for a moment, stares down at her husband. Then she takes the corner of the towel and wipes his mouth with a gentleness so practiced it doesn’t even look real. "You came back home," she says without any warmth in her voice.

I glance from her to Marcus and back. I have the urge to run, but I hold fast, my hands balled in the fabric of my skirt.

Natalie stands in the doorway, arms crossed, the cut of her green eyes never leaving her brother’s face.