Pretending Not to Know

Jenna’s Point of View

The room fell into a chilling silence after Danielle’s careless comment.

"She was his true love, you know... the one who died."

The words echoed in my ears louder than the clinks of silverware on porcelain. My fingers tightened around the wine glass I hadn’t even sipped from. I tried to smile, but it was brittle—fake, like everything else in my life.

I looked at Damon, hoping for something. A twitch of denial. A shake of the head. Anything. But he just stared down at his plate, his jaw clenched, his entire body still. He didn’t even flinch.

That silence told me everything I needed to know.

The table chatter moved on as if my world hadn’t just tilted. Danielle smiled, entirely unaware—or maybe uncaring—of the blow she had just delivered. I sat there, frozen, swallowing back the humiliation that threatened to crawl up my throat.

I didn’t ask him. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t. Not here. Not in front of them. I’d look pathetic, a wife who didn’t even know her husband’s heart had long been buried with someone else.

And so, I stayed quiet, pressing my knees together beneath the table to keep them from shaking.

Suddenly, Damon stood up. “We’re leaving.”

His voice was clipped, final.

I didn’t protest. I couldn’t. I only rose, nodding slightly to Danielle and the others, my eyes burning, my lips trembling. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

The ride home was silent.

The kind of silence that wasn't just absence of sound,but heavy, suffocating, filled with all the words we never said to each other.

I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, watching the blurry city lights whiz by. My reflection in the glass looked pale, tired, unfamiliar.

Was this what marriage had made me? An outsider to my own husband. A stranger to his past, his pain… and now, his secrets.

When we got home, I didn’t wait for him. I headed straight to my room.

Yes—my room.

Despite being married for six months, Damon and I hadn’t shared a real bedroom. Just a shared arrangement.

I peeled off the gown I had worn for the night and let it drop to the floor. My feet padded across the cold marble floor into the bathroom. I turned the tap on full, letting the hot water run, then stepped into the tub.

The warmth embraced me, but it couldn't reach my core.

I was numb.

Tears rolled down my cheeks without permission. I didn't sob or cry loudly. I just let the water take it all—my confusion, my pain, my shame.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, dipping my chin and letting myself float for a moment in the silence. Maybe, if I stayed here long enough, I’d disappear completely.

---

Later, the door creaked open.

I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Damon.

He didn’t say anything. He rarely did unless it benefited him.

I heard his footsteps, soft but certain, as he walked closer. A second later, he was behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I turned slightly, and his lips found mine.

I didn’t resist. I never did. That was the arrangement, right?

He kissed me like a habit. Like he knew exactly where to touch, where to move—without tenderness, without urgency. Just… routine.

I lay beneath him like I always did. Silent. Pliant. Pretending.

Pretending I didn’t notice how empty his eyes were.

Pretending I wasn’t breaking a little more inside every time he touched me like this.

Pretending I hadn’t just learned he once loved someone so deeply he couldn’t move on.

I closed my eyes and let him take what he wanted.

---

By morning, he was gone.

I woke up to the familiar sound of the door clicking shut behind him. The smell of his cologne still lingered in the air, and the pillow beside me was already cold.

I pulled the sheets over my head and laid there, unmoving, for a while. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. The digital clock blinked 7:45 AM.

Eventually, I got up, wrapped myself in a robe, and went downstairs to make breakfast.

Two eggs. Toast. Black coffee.

Even though I now knew he drank it with Liana, not me.

He entered the kitchen already dressed in his navy suit, looking every bit the successful CEO the world admired. I placed the plate on the counter without a word.

“Thanks,” he muttered. Not even sparing me a glance as he sat down to eat.

I stood there, watching him. Studying the man I married. The man who had never been mine.

Once he was done, he rose, adjusted his tie, and grabbed his briefcase.

“I’ll be home late,” he said flatly, and without another look, walked out the door.

---

The moment it shut, I collapsed into the nearest chair, my hand covering my mouth to keep the sob inside. I didn’t want the staff to hear. I didn’t want anyone to know just how empty I felt.

I stared at the breakfast table for a while, untouched food now gone cold. Just like everything else between us.

And then, I picked up my phone.

My fingers trembled as I dialed the only person who still made me feel like I mattered.

“Hello?” Jessica’s voice rang through. Warm, concerned.

“I need to see you,” I whispered. “Now.”

There was a beat of silence before she answered. “Come over. I’ll put on the kettle.”

---

I took a deep breath and looked at my reflection in the hallway mirror. My eyes were red. My face pale. My lips had the imprint of a man who didn’t love me.

How did I end up here?

Six months ago, I had agreed to this marriage out of loyalty. Family. Expectations. Business.

Everyone praised the match. Jenna Morgan, the granddaughter of Charles Morgan, married to Damon Easton, heir of the Easton Empire. The headlines loved it.

But nobody asked if I was happy.

No one cared that behind the luxury, the cars, and the designer gowns, I was drowning.

I grabbed my purse and headed out the door.

I needed my sister. I needed to feel something—anything—again.

I needed to stop pretending.