“What do you mean?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend, but I don’t care.
Adrian leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Marrying Zoe. You haven’t told anyone, especially Maria. What will you do when she finds out about this?”
I freeze at the mention of Maria. My chest tightens.
I’m not worried about Maria because of me. As much as I love her, she’s my daughter, not my boss. I can do whatever I want.
I’m worried about Maria because of Zoe.
They’ve been best friends for years, and I know that’s one of the reasons it’s taking Zoe so long to adjust. She’s trying to navigate this world, this life, without losing the only real connection she has left—Maria.
I rise from my chair, my anger simmering beneath the surface. I can’t stand Adrian’s stupid questions, his incessant probing. He doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand.
Without another word, I turn and walk out of the office, the door slamming behind me as I leave Adrian’s questions and doubts in the dust.
I take a long walk through the house, trying to clear my head. My thoughts are tangled, too much going on at once. need a moment of calm, a space where I can breathe without feeling like everything’s slipping through my fingers.
The silence of the house envelops me as I walk, the walls echoing with my every step. The air is cool, the house grand but empty, just the way it’s supposed to be. It’s all mine—my space, my control.
As I pass the library, something catches my eye. A flicker of movement through the door.
I stop, instinctively drawn in.
Inside, I find Zoe curled up on the couch, sketching something in a book, the pages open in front of her. I can’t help but pause, watching her. She’s focused, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration as her pencil moves across the page. Her hair falls loosely around her face, and for a moment, she seems so… different from the woman I’ve been watching, the one who’s been so distant since our marriage.
She’s soft. The way she draws, lost in her own world, unaware of my presence for a few seconds.
When she finally looks up, our eyes meet.
I expect her to flinch, to shy away from me, to retreat like she always does. But she doesn’t. She just blinks, the briefest acknowledgment of me, and then she goes back to her drawing.
I stand there, frozen, unable to look away. The moment feels strange, like it shouldn’t be happening. She’s not afraid of me. Not anymore. And that realization sits with me—heavier than I expected.
My curiosity piques as I notice the details of her drawing. It’s not just a random doodle. She’s sketching dresses, intricate designs, delicate lines and curves. I see the concentration in her eyes, the way her fingers move with precision. I know she’s into fashion design, and it makes my stomach swirl to see her so invested in it.
I stand there for a moment longer, watching her, but I don’t say anything. I let the silence linger, the quiet rhythm of her pencil scratching against the page filling the space between us. My chest tightens, and I feel that familiar pull toward her again—an urge to close the distance, to reach out and take.
But I can’t.
I shake my head slightly, willing myself to step away. The last thing I need right now is to make any impulsive moves, to do something that’ll ruin everything I’ve been building.Patience. I’ve been patient with her, giving her time to adjust, to come to terms with this life we’re building. Now is not the time to cross a line she’s not ready to cross.
With one last glance at her, I turn and walk away.
Later that evening, I sit alone at the dining table, the silverware gleaming in the low light of the room. The food is carefully prepared, the aroma filling the house, my gaze distant as I stare down at the empty chair across from me. The room is quiet, too quiet, and the stillness gnaws at me. Zoe should be on that chair, talking to me in that soft voice of hers.
The cook appears from the kitchen, holding a large tray of food as she goes up the stairs. I call out to her, my voice sharp.
“Who’s that for?”
She turns, startled by my sudden question, and answers in a low voice, “It’s for Madam.”
I feel a flicker of something cold in my chest at the mention of Zoe. She’s still keeping to herself, isolating herself in this house like she’s waiting for something to change.
I wave a hand dismissively. “Take it back into the kitchen,” I say, my tone more commanding than I intended. “Go upstairs and tell Zoe to come down. She’ll eat with me.”
The cook hesitates, glancing between me and the stairs before she turns and leaves the room.
Minutes pass, and I sit there, feeling the weight of the silence in the room pressing down on me again. I try to focus on the work I should be doing, but I can’t seem to shake the image of her—her eyes, her cold distance.
