Page 8 of The Ache That Stayed

Guarding the silence she disappeared into when the world became too loud.

Some battles she still fought by herself. But whatever haunted her in the dark would have to come through me first.

CHAPTER 3

Roxanne

The plane dipped through a ceiling of grey clouds as the city emerged below. Ireland greeted me the way it always did—wind that felt personal, damp cold that slipped beneath clothing like it belonged there, and skies that never fully decided to be day.

I stepped out of the airport and pulled my coat tighter, breath fogging the air. The cold slid beneath my clothes and settled into my bones, immediate and bracing. Foreign. Necessary.

Like a place that didn’t care who you were, only whether you could endure it. Harsh enough to quiet everything else.

Ireland always did this. Stripped things down to stone and weather. I muttered under my breath, tugging the collar higher.

Of course. Cold, damp, and unapologetic.

My phone vibrated before I reached the car.

A smile tugged at my mouth.

I huffed softly, sliding into the backseat.

I shook my head, warmth blooming somewhere behind my ribs. His words carried the same mix of authority and tenderness that always wrapped around me. Let me go without letting go. It was his way of loving me—never chains. Just the assurance that someone would always be waiting when I came home.

I caught my reflection in the darkened window as the car pulled away—tired eyes, familiar face—a woman who looked steadier than she felt.

I thought of the morning I’d left—his hands warm and certain at my waist, the way he’d taken me slow and then urgent before dawn, still hummed in my body. The way he’d kissed my temple instead of my mouth, like he knew I needed grounding more than fire. Romano’s sleepy arms around my neck, clinging like he’d never let go. And Kyra already buzzing about Sophie and everything they needed to “discuss.”

Leaving hadn’t been easy. It never was. Even the monthly trips to Ireland were hard. I was already starting to miss them, miss him. But he knew how important my work was to me. It kept me moving when my thoughts became too crowded.

My work wasn’t a distraction. It was proof.

Proof that I still existed outside love. Outside motherhood. Outside survival. Designing was the one place I didn’t feel split into pieces. It was where progress could be measured in beams and plaster instead of words unsaid.

The cottage sat tucked against the edge of a hill—a fifteen-minute drive from the manor. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old pine, low beams, and amber light spilling from the windows like honey across the floorboards.

Quiet and intentional.

Marcello had arranged everything. Of course he had.

Still, I double-checked the locks out of habit.

Some instincts never left once they learned how to live inside you.

Marcello had never been the kind of man who hovered.

The men who watched me—if they existed—never followed close enough to be seen. They never interfered. Never made themselves known. They stayed where they always had. Far enough to let me live. Close enough to make sure I kept breathing.

Or maybe that was just what I told myself so I could sleep.

I unpacked slowly, methodically. Lining things up. Folding and refolding. Small rituals of control that kept my thoughts from scattering.

The stillness here felt different. Less loaded. Not watchful. It didn’t press against my ribs or wait for me to fail.

By the time I reached the manor the next day, the weather hadn’t eased. Neither had the work. Ritu met me at the gates, her grin wide, her energy infectious, hair in a messy knot and tablet already in hand.

Together we walked the halls, my brain automatically slipping into designer mode. Blueprint. Sightlines. I surveyed the unfinished plaster, the rooms where wallpaper and colour would temper the austerity. I imagined how the light would travel at dusk, light fixtures warming corners that still felt skeletal. The upper floor still needed work. Recent rains had collapsed one of the old support beams.