"That's all for today." I grabbed my coat. "Contact me only if it's an emergency."
"Yes, sir."
I stepped out of the dock's control room and got into the car.
"Home."
The car wound through Philadelphia's streets. I gazed out the window, but my mind kept replaying one scene—Noelle last night at the dinner table, sipping her soup in small, delicate bites. She cradled the bowl of clear broth I'd specially requested from the kitchen, her lashes casting faint shadows on her eyelids, a subtle smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
It was a faint smile, so subtle you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention. But I noticed.
I found myself paying more attention to these little details abouther—what she liked, what she disliked, what made her smile, what made her frown.
This kind of fixation felt utterly alien to me.
The car pulled into the manor. I got out and entered the hall. The maid bowed respectfully, and I casually asked, "Where's Noelle?"
"Boss, she's in the library."
I headed toward the library, but paused at the doorway.
Noelle was curled up on the sofa, lying on her side, hands pillowed under her cheek, fast asleep. Her legs were slightly bent, a thin blanket draped over her, her slender ankle exposed.
A thick art book lay open on her lap, titled Wonders of the World. It was turned to a page featuring photos of Norway's fjords—deep blue waters, sheer cliffs rising on either side, distant snow-capped mountains.
The light bathed her hair in a soft golden halo. Her sleeping face was serene and vulnerable, long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, lips slightly parted, her breathing steady and gentle.
I stood there, watching her, suddenly unsure of what to do next.
This woman—the one I'd imprisoned, tormented, and hurt—now appeared heartbreakingly beautiful in my eyes.
I approached quietly and sat on the armrest beside her.
She didn't stir, just shifted slightly into a more comfortable position. The book nearly slipped from her knee. I caught it and flipped through a few pages.
Each page had small sticky notes attached, filled with her elegant handwriting—"Norway, Lofoten Islands, best viewing March-April," "New Zealand, glowworm caves, advance booking required," "Morocco, Chefchaouen blue town, perfect for photos"...
She'd annotated every location meticulously, planning trips that might never come to pass.
My fingers lingered on the Norway page, reminding me of the necklace—the compass pendant I'd given her.
She still wore it. Even after that brutal night on the bridge, she kept it on.
My hand rose involuntarily, yearning to touch her cheek. Myfingertips hovered just above her skin, sensing the faint warmth of her breath.
But at the last moment, I pulled back. These hands had harmed her, tortured her, caused her endless tears.
I leaned back on the sofa, simply watching her in silence. I lost track of time—maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. I just observed, listening to her even breathing, basking in this rare moment of tranquility.
It felt strange.
In my world, peace always carried an undercurrent of vigilance. Every lull was merely the prelude to the next storm. But watching her now, I experienced genuine calm.
I began to examine my own emotions.
Initially, my obsession had been with pursuing the phantom savior from my memories, believing she could fill the void inside me. Only now did I realize I'd never truly known Noelle—not as my rescuer, not as the Bellucci daughter, not as my captive or wife.
She was simply a soul passionate about painting and distant horizons, resilient yet fragile, clinging to hope even in despair. And I'd responded to that purity with confinement, suspicion, and pain.
