ALORA'S POV
The days after that night moved slowly, it felt like the house itself had decided to drag time along with it.
Nothing happened.
No arguments.
No explanations.
No apologies.
No crying.
I felt a little better after the party, but now I feel numb. The silence around me was deep and I kept expecting it to break on its own in any form. A call from Cassian. A message. A confrontation. Even anger would have been better than this careful nothing.
Instead, the house stayed still. I had Zara and Nyra over some days. And on days like that I felt happy. It made me forget the sorrow I wallowed in. Later on they both left for London on different occasions to be back a day later. But they never forgot to call me, or text me.
I cleaned rooms that did not need cleaning. I rearranged furniture and put it back the same way. I opened the windows and closed them again. I slept lightly and woke up early.
Then one evening, the front door opened.
And Cassian walked in holding roses.
They were not my favorite flowers. But he got them anyways. Wrapped neatly, like they had been selected without thought.
He held them out.
"For you."
I stared at them—then him in disbelief. For me?
"Thank you," I said quietly.
It felt automatic. Like a reflex. The correct response drilled into women early in life.
He shrugged out of his jacket. "Don't make it more than it is. They were at the store."
"So were plastic forks," I replied. "Yet you didn't bring those."
He paused and then smiled. Although it was a small one. Still it was something.
"You still talk like that."
"You remember?"
He leaned against the counter, folding his arms. While his gaze stayed on my face, not my body. And that alone felt strange.
"It's hard to forget," he said. "You used to aim it at everyone else."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know if you stopped aiming," he replied slowly, "Or if I just stopped feeling where it lands."
The words stayed between us and an awkward silence filled the living room.
I swallowed. "So—uhm, how was work?"
He blinked. "You're asking?"
"I'm trying," I said. "I forgot how to talk to you without begging for your time."
"Well they were meetings," he replied. "Same people pretending to innovate. One man forgot to mute himself while in the bathroom. And well it was a call to remember."
I laughed before I could stop myself. The sound surprised us both.
"There it is," he said softly. "That laugh."
I felt my pulse pick up a little. Was this hope?. "She hasn't shown up in a long time."
"She never left," he said. "She just got tired."
I did not answer.
That night, he followed me into the bedroom. Not the guest room.
Our room.
He moved carefully, as if I was fragile. He asked for permission before touching me. He paused when I went quiet. He looked at my face instead of the ceiling.
When his hand touched my collarbone, he stopped.
"Is this okay?"
"Yes," I whispered.
"I missed this," he said.
"What exactly?"
"You," he replied. "Before everything turned into headlines."
"You still come home," I said. "But it doesn't feel like you."
"I know," he said. "Just let me try tonight."
And I let him.
Not because I believed him or because I trusted him. But because I remembered who I had been when I first loved him. And how carefully he loved me then.
The night went by slowly and gently. It felt real. He took his time with me. He held me like someone afraid of losing grip. He made me feel loved again and I let myself pretend that meant something.
When I fell asleep, his arm was around me. And I slept peacefully. Maybe there was hope.
But I spoke too soon. Because the moment I opened my eyes. I was alone. Again.
The bed was cold on his side and the room was silent.
No note.
No message.
Nothing.
I sat there for a long while. With a blank face and an even blanker mind.
My phone rang while I was tying my robe.
His mother.
"You looked terrible at that event," she said. "But at least you served a purpose."
I closed my eyes. "Good morning to you too."
"He needs a distraction," she continued. "A pretty one. Not a fragile wife."
"Is that why you called," I asked calmly, "Or are you just bored today?"
"You should be grateful," she replied. "You have a name people respect."
"If respect sounds like this," I said, "You can keep it or rather shove it up your hairy ass.."
She was about to respond but I ended the call in time to shut out her annoying voice.
The silence returned.
I stood in the hallway, with my robe slipping off my shoulder as usual. I looked like a mess. I let him make me a mess.
"I am such a fool," I whispered.
"You're not."
I turned in shock.
Zara stood near the door, with my house keys in her hand.
"I used the spare key," she said. "You weren't answering."
I tried to speak, but nothing came out.
She crossed the room and hugged me without asking.
"You let him back in," she said gently.
"I know."
"That doesn't make you weak."
"It makes me tired."
"That too."
She sat with me until my breathing steadied. Eventually, I opened the drawer I had been avoiding for some months now.
The papers were still there.
Unsigned.
"Are you ready," Zara asked.
I stared at the line where my name should go.
"What would I even say to him," I asked.
She thought for a moment. "That surviving someone doesn't give them the leverage to keep hurting you."
I nodded slightly and signed without shaking hands.
I signed.
And for the first time in years, the silence afterwards felt worth it.