The room was dark when I walked in, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears. Her side of the bed was already occupied. Val was lying perfectly still, her back turned toward me, the soft glow of the nightlight tracing the outline of her shoulder.

I knew she wasn't asleep.

Her breathing wasn't slow enough.

But I didn't say anything.

I just stood there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her back before turning away.

The shower was quick — hot water, steam, the faint scent of her shampoo still clinging to the air. I stayed under it longer than I needed to, hoping the warmth might wash off the heaviness I couldn't quite name.

When I slipped into bed, the sheets were cold on my side. She didn't move, didn't make a sound. I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city outside.

For a while, I just… looked at her.

The way her hair fell across the pillow, the faint shape of her back beneath the blanket. Once, that sight used to feel like peace. Now it just felt like distance wrapped in silk.

I sighed, quietly, and shut my eyes.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, I felt the mattress shift — so slightly I might've imagined it. And if I hadn't already closed my eyes, I might've caught it:

the moment she opened hers too.

But neither of us turned.

Morning came slow, light slipping in through the curtains. The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen — strong, clean, familiar.

By the time I walked out, the table was already set. Breakfast, neatly plated, still warm. But it wasn't Val's cooking. It hadn't been for a while.

Aline, the cook, stood near the counter, politely pretending not to notice the silence that filled the room.

"Thank you, Aline," Val said softly. Her tone was composed, polite. The tone she used with clients.

Aline nodded and quietly excused herself, leaving us alone.

We ate in silence for a few minutes. The clink of cutlery was the only sound between us. I watched her absently stir her tea, though she hadn't taken a sip.

"I won't be back home on time today," I said eventually, pushing my plate forward a little. "There's a meeting scheduled for five. Might… run late."

She didn't look up right away. Her fork paused midair before she set it down carefully beside her plate.

"Okay," she said finally. Her voice was calm, too calm.

Silence stretched between us.

After a moment, she added, almost as if it was a reflex, "I'll probably be late too. My dad wants me to review a proposal before the quarterly briefing."

I nodded. "Right."

And that was it.

The conversation ended before it could even begin.

The quiet settled back in like something alive, something that used to feel comfortable, but now only reminded me of what wasn't being said.

I cleared my throat, searching for something—anything—to keep the conversation from dying completely. "How's Lucien? Haven't seen him around lately."

She hesitated, her eyes flicking toward me for a second before dropping back to her plate. "Busy," she said. "He's been traveling a lot… Dubai last week, I think."

"Oh." I forced a small smile, trying to sound casual. "That sounds like him."

> "Yeah."

Her tone was soft, distant. The kind that didn't invite a follow-up.

Then silence again.

I glanced at her again, hair perfectly tied, expression calm, unbothered. If anyone else saw her right now, they'd think everything was fine. Maybe even perfect.

When she finally stood, her chair scraped softly against the floor. She smoothed the front of her cream blouse, every motion practiced, graceful. Then she picked up her bag, a sleek black Hermès Kelly with gold hardware, and slung it over her shoulder like it was just another accessory, not something that probably cost more than my former apartment's three months rent.

"I should get going," she said quietly, her tone polite, detached, like we were just two people sharing a table, not a life.

I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could, she leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. It was soft, polite, detached.

"See you tonight," she murmured.

I smiled faintly, but she was already walking off. Her heels clicked against the floor, then the door shut, and the house went quiet again.

And then it was just me. The empty table. The half-drunk coffee. The faint trace of her perfume fading into the quiet.

This was how our mornings had been lately.

Routine, predictable. A series of perfectly timed exchanges that used to mean something but now only filled the silence between us.

Almost a month since the issue.

Almost a month since we'd last felt like… us.

And no matter how much I tried to pretend otherwise, I could feel it — something shifting, quietly, just beneath the surface.

Something we weren't saying.

Something neither of us was ready to face.

---

It didn't take me long to get to work.

Not because the traffic was light or anything, it was because my mind was somewhere else the whole time. Half the drive went by in a blur of red lights and half-formed thoughts.

Before I knew it, the day had come and gone. Numbers, reports, meetings, they all faded into background noise until the office lights dimmed and my reflection in the window reminded me it was dark out.

I wasn't ready to go home.

Not yet.

So I found myself sitting in a bar across from Trent instead.

He didn't ask at first. Just slid a bottle my way, like he already knew. We sat there for a while, the sound of clinking glasses and low music filling the silence neither of us wanted to break.

Then because it's Trent, and he can't stand silence for too long, he finally said,

"You okay, bud?"

I let out a breath that was halfway between a sigh and a laugh. "Yeah."

He raised a brow, took a slow sip, and looked at me the way he always does when he knows I'm lying. "You're not."

"I am," I said.

"Really?" He leaned back in his chair, smirking faintly. "Then why are you here instead of home, huh?"

I looked away, jaw tight.

He had a point.

The truth was, there wasn't a meeting at five. There hadn't been one at all. I just couldn't bring myself to go back to that quiet apartment, to her sitting on one side of the couch, pretending to be asleep when I walked in, pretending not to care when I said goodnight.

"I just… needed air," I muttered finally.

Trent nodded slowly, swirling the drink in his glass. "Yeah, air. That thing married guys suddenly need when they can't stand being home."

I shot him a look. "You done?"

He shrugged. "Not really. But I'll pace myself."

I sighed and leaned back. "It's not like that."

He didn't answer, just waited. He's good at that, staying quiet long enough for me to talk.

After a while, I said, "Remember that infrastructure bid I told you about? The one Gray & Milton's been circling?"

Trent didn't look up from his glass. "The one you said Moreau Dynamics are also eyeing?"

"Yeah," I muttered. "That one."

Trent let out a low whistle and leaned back. "What kind of sick game is her dad playing?"

I gave a small, humorless smile. "The usual kind. The one where I'm the pawn he never wanted on the board."

He snorted softly. "Sounds about right."

We went silent. Then, after a beat, "She still doesn't know yet, does she?"

I shook my head. "No."

Trent leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. "And you're just… gonna wait it out?"

"I don't know," I said quietly. "It's not like I can exactly bring it up over dinner. 'Hey, honey, my firm and your dad's billion-dollar empire are about to go head-to-head for the same deal.'"

Trent gave me a look. "You've said worse."

"Yeah, well," I muttered, "this one's different."

He didn't argue. Just nodded like he understood, because he probably did.

We sat in silence for a moment. The kind that wasn't entirely uncomfortable but definitely not peaceful either. The kind that carried too many things we didn't want to say out loud.

Then Trent broke it again, his tone quieter this time. "And what about the other thing?"

I stared at him for a long moment, then looked away. "I... Not yet."

"Right," he said, taking another sip. "Because that's gonna fix everything."

I didn't reply.

He set the glass down with a soft clink, sighed, then said, "You're a smart guy, Kai. But sometimes you think so much, you forget how to talk."

That one hit harder than I wanted it to.

I looked down at my own drink, the ice half-melted now. "Yeah," I said finally. "Guess I do."

Trent was quiet for a second, swirling what was left in his glass. Then he said, "Look, man… don't wait too long to tell her. Secrets don't fix things, they just buy time before it blows up."

I huffed a small laugh. "You sound like Marina."

He smirked. "That's because she's usually right."

I nodded slowly, not saying anything. The bar was quiet again, only the low hum of a song playing somewhere in the background.

Trent finished the last of his drink and set the glass down with a soft clink. "Just… don't let pride do the talking. You've come too far for that."

I didn't respond. Because he was right.

We didn't talk much after that. Just sat there while the night got darker outside, pretending the silence didn't mean anything when, deep down, we both knew it did.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't sure if going home would make it better...

or worse.

---

To be continued...

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.