Clara didn't expect silence to hurt this much.
The penthouse was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. She stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself, watching the city lights pulse below like a living thing that never stopped moving.
Unlike her.
Dylan hadn't come home yet.
That shouldn't have mattered.
It shouldn't have mattered that the clock read past midnight.
It shouldn't have mattered that dinner had gone untouched.
It shouldn't have mattered that every sound made her turn her head.
But it did.
Because tonight wasn't just another night.
Tonight was the night everything felt dangerously close to breaking.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her heart skipped as she answered. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Monroe," a woman's voice said smoothly. "I thought you might like to know where your husband is."
Clara's fingers tightened around the phone.
"Who is this?" she asked.
A soft laugh. "You know who I am."
Vanessa.
Clara closed her eyes briefly. "What do you want?"
"To help," Vanessa replied. "Again."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"No," Vanessa said lightly. "But you might appreciate the truth."
Clara swallowed. "Say it."
"He's at the Westbridge Hotel," Vanessa continued. "Board meeting ran late. Drinks followed. Important people. Important decisions."
"And?" Clara said, her voice steady despite the tension in her chest.
"And I'm here too."
The silence stretched.
"You're lying," Clara said.
"I wish I were," Vanessa replied. "But you deserve to know when you're being tested."
The line went dead.
Clara stared at her phone for a long moment.
Then she picked up her coat.
The Westbridge Hotel gleamed with wealth and quiet power, the kind that didn't need to announce itself. Clara moved through the lobby with purpose, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor.
She didn't belong here.
But neither did doubt.
The bar was dimly lit, filled with low voices and restrained laughter. She spotted Dylan immediately.
He stood near the bar, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass. Several men stood around him, listening intently.
And beside him—
Vanessa.
She stood close. Too close.
Her hand brushed Dylan's arm as she laughed at something he said.
Clara's chest burned.
She didn't hesitate.
She walked straight toward them.
Dylan saw her first.
Shock flickered across his face.
Then something else.
Relief.
"Clara," he said, stepping away from the group. "What are you doing here?"
She stopped in front of him. "I could ask you the same thing."
Vanessa smiled slowly. "I didn't expect you," she said. "But I should have."
Clara ignored her.
"You didn't come home," Clara said quietly to Dylan.
"It ran late," he replied. "I was going to call."
"When?" she asked.
He had no answer.
The men around them shifted awkwardly, sensing tension they weren't meant to witness.
Dylan cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, excuse us."
They moved away quickly.
Vanessa didn't.
"You look upset," Vanessa said softly. "Isn't this what you signed up for?"
Clara finally turned to her.
"No," she said calmly. "I signed up for honesty."
Vanessa tilted her head. "And you think you'll get that from him?"
Dylan stiffened. "That's enough."
Vanessa's smile widened. "Is it?"
Clara took a slow breath.
"Dylan," she said. "I'm going home."
His head snapped toward her. "Now?"
"Yes."
Vanessa raised a brow. "Running away again?"
Clara looked her dead in the eye. "No. I'm giving him a choice."
She turned and walked away.
The penthouse felt colder when Clara returned.
She removed her coat slowly, her hands steady despite the storm raging inside her chest. She didn't cry.
She wouldn't.
She went to her room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Finally, the door opened.
Dylan stepped inside.
He looked tired. Unguarded.
"You shouldn't have come there," he said quietly.
"You shouldn't have stayed," she replied.
Silence settled between them.
"I didn't touch her," Dylan said.
"That's not what this is about," Clara said softly.
He frowned. "Then what is it about?"
She stood, facing him fully. "It's about whether I matter when no one is watching."
His jaw tightened.
"You do matter."
"Then why does it feel like I'm always optional?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
"That world," he said slowly, "is complicated."
"So am I," Clara replied. "And I didn't ask to be easy."
He ran a hand through his hair. "You knew what this was."
"Yes," she said. "But I didn't know what it would cost me."
She stepped closer. "I won't compete with your past."
"You're not," he said quickly.
"Then don't let her stand beside you like she belongs there," Clara said. "Because I do."
The words hung between them.
Raw.
Honest.
Unavoidable.
Dylan looked at her as if seeing her clearly for the first time.
"You're right," he said quietly.
Her breath caught.
"I should've left," he continued. "I should've come home."
"You didn't," Clara said.
"No," he admitted. "But I'm here now."
She searched his face. "Why?"
"Because when you walked away," he said, "I realized I didn't want a world where you weren't waiting for me."
Her chest tightened painfully.
"I don't want to be the woman you come home to out of obligation," she said. "I want to be the woman you choose."
Dylan stepped closer.
"I did," he said. "Tonight, I did."
His hand reached for hers.
She hesitated only a second before letting him take it.
"I'm not asking you to love me," Clara whispered. "Not yet."
He nodded. "Then let me start by respecting you."
Their fingers intertwined.
For the first time since signing the contract, the silence between them didn't feel empty.
It felt full of possibility.
And somewhere deep inside Clara, hope stirred—fragile, cautious, but alive.