Billionaires Desire

Fractures in the silence

The tension in the mansion was palpable, like the air itself was laced with unspoken words and emotions no one dared acknowledge. Desiree had always been a survivor—she had learned how to read people quickly, figure out who to trust, and who to fear. But with Atticus, everything was clouded. His silence was more terrifying than words could ever be.
Days passed in a strange rhythm. Atticus would leave early, often before the sun rose, and return late, his presence a fleeting shadow that haunted the house. Desiree would watch the clock, trying to anticipate when he would come back, not out of fear exactly, but out of a twisted curiosity. She had learned a few things about him—he preferred silence over conversation, precision over chaos, and had a strange tendency to leave small gestures that confused her even more.
The food that appeared on her nightstand at odd hours. The neatly folded blanket he once draped over her while she had fallen asleep reading. The way he always knew where she was, even though they rarely spoke.
Desiree couldn’t figure him out, and it unsettled her.
---
One evening, just after dusk, Desiree wandered through the halls again, the unease of the day pulling her in all directions. She had been avoiding the library, though it called to her every day. Something about it felt forbidden, like stepping into that room would reveal too much of Atticus.
But tonight, she pushed the door open.
The library was enormous—shelves stacked floor to ceiling with books that looked old enough to have been there for centuries. The scent of leather and paper mixed with the faint smell of tobacco—she wondered briefly if Atticus smoked, though she had never seen it.
There was a certain darkness here, not just in the lack of light, but in the atmosphere itself. It was oppressive, like every book contained a secret, and those secrets were Atticus’s alone.
Desiree moved carefully, her fingers trailing along the spines of the books as she walked deeper into the room. It was almost too quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of her breath and the creak of the wooden floor beneath her feet. She felt like an intruder, like she didn’t belong.
But then she noticed something—a small, inconspicuous book lying open on the large mahogany desk in the center of the room. It was different from the others, its pages worn and fragile, as though it had been read countless times.
She leaned forward, curiosity getting the better of her, and read the first few lines of text.
_"There is no love without pain, no truth without sacrifice..."_
Her eyes lingered on the words, the weight of them sinking into her chest. They felt... familiar, though she couldn’t place why. She turned the page gently, careful not to tear the brittle paper.
"Do you always snoop where you shouldn’t?"
The voice made her jump, her heart leaping into her throat as she spun around to see Atticus standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was impassive, but his eyes were sharper than usual, like he had caught her doing something far worse than simply reading.
"I wasn’t..." Desiree stammered, taking a step back from the desk. "I was just looking. I didn’t mean to—"
"You didn’t mean to what?" His voice was low, cold, cutting through her like a blade. "You didn’t mean to invade my space? Or you didn’t mean to get caught?"
Desiree swallowed, her pulse quickening as she searched for the right words. But nothing came.
Atticus’s gaze softened slightly, though his posture remained rigid. "You’re not here to explore, Desiree. You’re here to stay out of trouble. That’s it."
"I know," she whispered, feeling her throat tighten. "I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I just... wanted to understand."
He narrowed his eyes at her, clearly skeptical. "Understand what, exactly?"
"You," Desiree said before she could stop herself. "I wanted to understand you."
There was a flicker of something in Atticus’s expression—surprise, maybe—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He walked into the room, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approached the desk. For a moment, Desiree thought he was going to close the book, end the conversation before it even began. But he didn’t.
Instead, he stood beside her, staring down at the open page with a distant, almost wistful look in his eyes.
"You think there’s something here to understand?" he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Desiree nodded, though she wasn’t sure if it was the right answer.
Atticus let out a quiet sigh, his gaze never leaving the book. "There’s nothing to understand. I am exactly what you see. Nothing more."
"That’s not true," Desiree said, her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her chest. "If that were true, you wouldn’t be standing here, letting me read this."
Atticus’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Desiree thought she had pushed too far. But then, he surprised her.
He laughed.
It was a quiet, almost bitter sound, but it was a laugh nonetheless. "You think you’re clever, don’t you?"
Desiree blinked, unsure of how to respond. "I just... I don’t think you’re as cold as you want me to believe."
Atticus turned to look at her, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. "Don’t make the mistake of thinking you know me, Desiree."
"I’m not saying I do," she said softly. "I just... I don’t think you’re like Anthony."
The mention of his brother seemed to strike a chord. His entire demeanor shifted, the laughter vanishing as quickly as it had come. His face hardened, his eyes darkening.
"No," he said quietly, his voice like ice. "I’m not like Anthony."
There was something in the way he said it—something bitter, something fractured. Desiree could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Atticus wasn’t like his brother, that much was clear. Anthony was wild, chaotic, filled with energy and charisma that could charm anyone. But Atticus... he was the storm that came after the chaos, the quiet before the disaster.
Before Desiree could say anything more, Atticus turned away from her, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as though he needed to hold onto something solid.
"You should go to bed," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "This conversation is over."
Desiree hesitated, wanting to say more, but knowing that pushing him now would only make things worse. She nodded silently and turned to leave, but as she reached the door, she paused.
"Atticus," she said softly, turning back to look at him.
He didn’t move, his back still to her as he stared down at the desk.
"Goodnight."
She waited for a response, but none came. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, until Desiree finally left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
As she made her way back to her own room, the weight of the conversation lingered in the air. She had seen something tonight—something behind the cold, distant mask that Atticus wore so well.
But she wasn’t sure if she was any closer to understanding him.
Or if she ever would be.
Desiree’s steps were light as she retreated from the library, but her thoughts were heavy. The tension between her and Atticus lingered, thick and suffocating. She felt like she had pulled at a thread that could unravel something far bigger than she ever intended, but she couldn’t stop herself. There was a quiet curiosity in her that kept leading her back to him, despite the warnings in his eyes and the walls he had built so high around himself.
Back in her room, she sank onto the edge of the bed, her mind racing. She thought of the way his voice had softened, just for a moment. The laugh that had escaped him—surprising and bitter, yet strangely human. The way his face had tightened when she mentioned Anthony. It was clear that Atticus carried burdens, ones that perhaps no one had ever seen.
But what those burdens were, she couldn’t yet understand.
---
The next morning, Desiree woke to the sound of distant voices echoing through the halls. She had slept restlessly, her dreams filled with fragments of the conversation from the night before, images of cold marble floors and darkened eyes. For the first time since arriving, she felt a strange pull of anticipation.
She dressed quickly and made her way downstairs, half-expecting to find Atticus already gone. Instead, she found Anthony sitting in the kitchen, a bright grin lighting up his face as he sipped coffee from a delicate porcelain cup.
“Well, look who decided to join the living,” he teased, his voice loud and full of energy, in contrast to the quiet that usually enveloped the mansion. He leaned back in his chair, giving her a once-over with his sharp, playful eyes. “Sleep well, sweetheart?”
Desiree didn’t answer right away, her mind still focused on Atticus and the strange tension that now clung to her. Anthony’s liveliness felt almost jarring in comparison, as if he were a burst of color in the otherwise monochrome world of the Killian estate.
“I slept fine,” she murmured, taking a seat across from him. “Where’s Atticus?”
Anthony raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Looking for my brother already? I thought you might have had enough of his charm.”
Desiree forced a small smile. “Just curious. He’s… hard to read.”
Anthony laughed, a bright, melodic sound that filled the room. “That’s an understatement. Atticus has always been the quiet type. Closed off, you know? But don’t worry. He’ll open up eventually.”
She wasn’t so sure. Atticus didn’t seem like the type to open up easily, if at all. There was a darkness to him, a weight that Anthony either didn’t notice or didn’t care to acknowledge.
“He left early again,” Anthony added with a shrug. “He’s always busy with ‘business,’ as he likes to call it.”
There was something in the way Anthony said it—a slight edge beneath the lightness of his tone. The mention of their family business was always vague, shrouded in hints and subtle warnings. Desiree knew better than to ask too many questions, especially with Anthony. He was too charming, too good at deflecting.
But before she could push the conversation further, Anthony’s playful grin returned.
“Speaking of my dear brother,” he said, leaning forward on the table, “have you tried talking to him? Like, really talking?”
Desiree frowned, unsure of where this was going. “What do you mean?”
Anthony waved a hand dismissively. “You know, getting under his skin a little. Atticus doesn’t say much, but I think he might be more... open to you than you think.”
The suggestion caught Desiree off guard. It was absurd, really—the idea that Atticus might somehow be more receptive to her than to anyone else. But then again, Anthony was the one who had chosen her as a gift for his brother. Maybe he knew something she didn’t.
“Atticus is… complicated,” she said carefully.
Anthony snorted. “That’s putting it mildly. But listen, sweetheart—don’t let him scare you off. He’s got his own way of dealing with things, but trust me, he’s not as cold as he seems.”
Desiree wasn’t sure how much of that she believed, but she didn’t argue. Anthony’s easy charm was disarming, and it was easy to forget that beneath it all, the Killian family held power in ways she couldn’t begin to understand.
---
The day passed in a blur of silence and empty rooms. Desiree found herself wandering aimlessly through the mansion again, her thoughts drifting back to Atticus, to his cryptic words and cold demeanor. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more beneath the surface—something darker, perhaps, but something she was drawn to nonetheless.
As night fell, she found herself standing outside his bedroom door once more. The house was quiet, the maids having retreated to their own quarters, and the air was thick with a strange tension. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of why she was even there. What was she expecting? Another cold dismissal? More silence?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she knocked lightly on the door.
There was a long pause, and for a moment, Desiree thought maybe he wasn’t home. But then the door creaked open, revealing Atticus, his expression unreadable as he stood in the dim light of his room.
“What is it?” His voice was low, guarded.
Desiree swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t thought this through—she didn’t even know what she wanted to say. But the words came anyway.
“Can we talk?”
Atticus stared at her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. He didn’t answer, but he stepped aside, allowing her to enter. The room was much the same as before—cold, meticulously organized, with an air of distance that seemed to reflect its owner.