Jealous Boyfriend Buying Silence

The morning sun filtered through the large windows of Alexander's mansion, casting golden rays over the polished floors and expensive furniture. There was a rare stillness in the house, a quiet that Alexander had never quite noticed until now. He stood in the kitchen, an unlikely sight for someone like him. His fingers moved deftly over the ingredients—eggs, butter, fresh herbs—as he cooked breakfast. He wasn't particularly skilled in the kitchen, but today was different. Today, he wanted to make amends.

The events of the previous day had replayed in his mind all night, gnawing at him. He wasn't used to feeling regret, but when he saw the pain in Isabella's eyes, he had felt a stab of guilt deep in his chest. The cold, calculating man who had built an empire of fear was now standing over a stove, trying to make things right with the woman who had unexpectedly become his world.

He set the table with fine china and a vase of fresh roses, hoping the gesture would convey what he couldn't bring himself to say. He took a deep breath, straightened his shirt, and called up the stairs, his voice softer than usual. "Isabella, breakfast is ready."

Silence greeted him. He waited, straining to hear any sound of movement from her room, but none came. Frowning, Alexander called out again, louder this time, but still, there was no response.

Minutes ticked by, and his worry began to grow. He left the kitchen and climbed the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the carpeted steps. When he reached her room, he hesitated for a moment before knocking gently on the door. "Isabella?" His voice was calm, but inside, anxiety clawed at him.

When there was still no answer, Alexander slowly pushed the door open. The sight that greeted him made his heart sink. Isabella was sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She wasn't crying, but her blank, faraway stare worried him more than tears ever could.

"Isabella?" he whispered, his voice unusually tender as he stepped closer.

She blinked slowly, as if his presence had only just registered. "Alexander…" her voice was flat, emotionless.

He knelt in front of her, careful not to touch her just yet. "I made you breakfast," he said, hoping to coax her into some kind of response, some indication that the woman he had fallen for was still there beneath the hurt.

She didn't answer, didn't move. She simply sat there, looking lost and fragile, like a bird that had forgotten how to fly. Alexander's heart twisted in a way that was unfamiliar, and for the first time, he felt the sting of helplessness. He had always been in control—in business, in life—but not here. Not now.

"Come on," he urged softly. "Just come downstairs. I… I want to make things right."

For a long moment, Isabella didn't move, but eventually, she unfolded herself from the bed, her movements slow and heavy, as if every step was an effort. Alexander led her downstairs, guiding her to the table where the breakfast he had prepared sat waiting, untouched. The food, once warm and inviting, now seemed cold and unappetizing, much like the atmosphere between them.

Isabella sat at the table, staring at her plate without really seeing it. She picked at the food, pushing it around with her fork, taking small, mechanical bites. Alexander watched her from across the table, his appetite gone. He had hoped that this simple gesture would be enough to break through the wall that had grown between them, but it was clear now that it would take more than breakfast to fix what he had broken.

He tried to make conversation, talking about inconsequential things, the weather, the news. But Isabella's responses were monosyllabic, her gaze never lifting from her plate. The distance between them seemed to grow with every passing minute, until the sound of his phone ringing cut through the tension like a knife.

With a sigh, Alexander reached for the phone. It was his assistant, Victor, reminding him of a business meeting in a neighboring country. The meeting had completely slipped his mind, but now, the reminder brought a wave of obligation crashing over him.

He set the phone down and looked at Isabella. "I have a meeting today," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Would you come with me?"

She looked up, her surprise evident. "Why do you want me to come?"

Alexander hesitated, unsure of what to say. The truth was, he didn't want to leave her alone. He was afraid of what might happen if he did. "Because I need an assistant," he said, offering her a small smile. "And… I thought it would be nice to have some company."

For a moment, she seemed to consider his words, and then, to his relief, she nodded. "Okay, I'll come."

---

The drive to the meeting was quiet, the tension between them palpable. Alexander could feel Isabella's unease beside him, and it gnawed at him. He had thought bringing her along might ease the strain between them, but the silence that hung in the air seemed heavier than before.

When they arrived at the meeting, a sense of unease settled in Alexander's stomach. He introduced Isabella as his assistant, but the businessman they were meeting—a portly man with an oily smile and leering gaze—didn't seem to take her seriously. His eyes lingered on her for far too long, making Alexander's blood boil.

Alexander's chest tightened as the man's gaze slid over Isabella, the possessiveness that he had tried to bury roaring to life. Throughout the meeting, his mind was barely on the business at hand. Instead, it was fixated on the way the man had looked at Isabella, the way her eyes had been cast down, too polite or too afraid to react.

By the time they left, Alexander's emotions were a maelstrom, swirling out of control. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the fear—it all built inside him, a storm waiting to explode. He drove in silence, gripping the wheel too tightly, his knuckles white. Isabella, sensing his mood, stayed quiet, her gaze focused on the passing landscape outside the window.

When they returned to the mansion, Alexander couldn't hold it in any longer. As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned on her, his voice low but filled with venom.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he demanded, his eyes flashing with anger.

Isabella blinked, startled by his sudden change in demeanor. "What are you talking about?"

"The way he looked at you," Alexander snapped, his voice rising. "You just sat there and took it. Do you like it when men look at you like that? Is that it?"

Her eyes widened in shock, her confusion quickly giving way to hurt. "What? No, I—"

"You're just a slut, aren't you?" The words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them, sharp and cutting. "You need attention from any man who'll give it to you. You're desperate for validation, aren't you?"

Isabella's breath caught in her throat, his words hitting her like a slap. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but Alexander was too far gone, his rage blinding him.

"You lead men on, just to see how far they'll go," he spat. "You're a game player, Isabella. And I'm not going to play along."

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them back, refusing to let them fall. "Alexander, stop," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Please, just listen to me…"

But he wasn't listening. His anger had consumed him, and all he could see was the betrayal he imagined in her actions. Finally, unable to control his rage, he stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

---

That night, Isabella cried herself to sleep, her mind spinning with confusion and pain. She didn't understand why Alexander was so angry, why he had lashed out at her with such cruelty. She had thought that maybe—just maybe—there had been something between them, a connection worth saving. But now, she wasn't sure of anything.

The next morning, when she woke, Alexander was gone. A part of her felt relief, but another part, the part that still cared despite everything, was worried. Had she done something to deserve his anger? Was she the person he had accused her of being?

As she moved through the house, trying to distract herself with mundane tasks, a black car pulled up outside. A driver stepped out, bowing slightly as he approached the door.

"Miss Isabella," he said with a formal tone, "Mr. Alexander sent me to take you shopping."

Isabella blinked, taken aback. "Shopping?"

The driver nodded. "Yes, miss. Mr. Alexander said you needed new clothes. He has given me a credit card to use."

Her emotions warred inside her. On one hand, the thought of a day out, away from the oppressive atmosphere of the mansion, was tempting. On the other, this felt wrong. Like Alexander was trying to buy her off, to cover his cruelty with expensive gifts.

Still, she decided to go along with it. Perhaps this was his way of apologizing.

---

At the mall, Isabella wandered through the stores, the weight of Alexander's actions hanging over her. She tried to enjoy the distraction, picking out dresses and shoes, but every time she saw her reflection in the mirror, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was just another form of control. He hadn't apologized. He hadn't made things right. He had simply thrown money