There was a time, in the early days of their marriage, when Charlotte believed the silence was a fortress she could breach.
She thought Lucas's heart was a locked room, and if she could only find the right key, she could open it and flood it with the light and warmth she carried within her.
She still held onto a sliver of that naive hope, a stubborn hope refusing to be extinguished by the relentless cold.
It was this hope that drove her to try, one more time, to build a bridge across the chasm that separated them. It was their third anniversary, a date Lucas had almost certainly forgotten, buried as it was under layers of quarterly reports and acquisition strategies.
She spent the entire day preparing. She dismissed the household staff, wanting the space to be theirs alone. The kitchen, usually the domain of a private chef, became her sanctuary.
She filled it with the scent of roasting herbs and baking bread, aromas from a simpler, warmer life she sometimes dreamed of. She chose a recipe from a worn cookbook that had belonged to her grandmother, a hearty, rustic dish that spoke of home and comfort, not of Michelin stars and molecular gastronomy.
It was an offering, a piece of her soul she was laying on a plate. She set the long obsidian table not for a state dinner, but for an intimate meal.
Two places, close together. She lit candles, their soft, flickering light a gentle rebellion against the harsh, modern LEDs embedded in the ceiling.
She even dared to suggest a trip, a small escape from the city, from the tower that felt more like a prison.
When Lucas arrived home, he walked past the dining room without a glance.
His focus was, as always, on the sleek black tablet in his hand. He shed his suit jacket, tossing it onto a chair with a careless disregard that made her flinch.
"Lucas," she called out, her voice softer than she intended, a fragile thing in the cavernous space.
He stopped, turning with an air of impatience, his eyes scanning her as if she were an unexpected item on his day's agenda.
"What is it, Charlotte? I have a call with the Tokyo branch in an hour."
Her carefully rehearsed words caught in her throat. She gestured towards the table, towards the candles and the lovingly prepared meal. "I… I cooked dinner,"
she said. "For our anniversary." A flicker of something crossed his face not recognition, but annoyance.
He had forgotten. Of course, he had forgotten. He glanced at the table, his gaze clinical, analytical. He saw not an act of love, but an inefficient use of time.
"We have a chef for this," he stated, his tone flat. "You shouldn't have wasted your time."
The words were like stones, each one striking a blow against the fragile hope she had nurtured all day. "It wasn't a waste of time," she whispered, her hands twisting in front of her. "I wanted to do something special. For us. I thought… maybe we could talk. I even found a brochure for a small inn by the coast. We could go away for a weekend. Just us."
She held out the glossy pamphlet like a peace offering. It depicted a charming, rustic lodge nestled among pine trees, a stark contrast to their sterile, glass-and-steel reality.
Lucas took the brochure but didn't look at it. He used it to gesture vaguely at the city lights glittering beyond the floor to ceiling windows. "Charlotte, my work is here. The company doesn't take weekends off. This trip is… impractical."
He dropped the brochure onto the table, its image of seaside serenity landing beside a plate of cooling food.
"This entire endeavor is impractical. It's sentimental and unproductive."
He tapped his tablet. "The Nakatomi deal requires my full attention. A celebratory dinner can be scheduled by my assistant when my calendar is clear. We can go to a proper restaurant."
He didn't see the tears welling in her eyes. He didn't register the way her body seemed to shrink, to fold in on itself. He had assessed the situation, identified the emotional variable, and dismissed it as irrelevant data.
He turned to walk towards his home office, his mind already back on the Tokyo call, on the percentages and projections.
"Blow out the candles, Charlotte," he said over his shoulder, a final, careless command. "It's a fire hazard."
She stood alone in the dining room, the scent of her grandmother's recipe mingling with the cold, metallic smell of his ambition.
The candlelight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that made the vast room feel even emptier.
One by one, she watched the tiny flames reflect in her tear filled eyes. He hadn't just dismissed her dinner; he had dismissed her, her effort, her hope, her love.
He had looked at the light she had tried to create and saw only a liability.
With a trembling breath, she leaned over the table and blew. The flames vanished, plunging the room into the familiar, oppressive gloom, leaving only the cold, indifferent glow of the city outside.
The candle was unlit, and in its place, a wisp of smoke curled into the air, a final, fading prayer before it, too, disappeared into the silence.