The silence was the first thing Julian noticed. It wasn’t the peaceful quiet of a sleeping house; it was a deep, hollow void that seemed to swallow sound.
He returned to the mansion well past midnight, the acrid taste of cheap champagne from a pointless networking event still on his tongue.
He’d expected the familiar, soft glow of the living room lamp, a beacon Elara always left burning for him, a silent testament to her waiting. Tonight, the house was a tomb of darkness.
He flipped a switch, and the sudden, sterile glare of the grand chandelier was almost painful. It illuminated a space that was both his and not his.
The custom Italian sofa was in its place, the Persian rug centered perfectly, but the soul of the room was gone.
The cashmere throw she always draped over the arm of the sofa, the one he’d pretend to be annoyed by but secretly found comfort in, was missing. The small stack of classic novels on the mahogany side table, their pages dog-eared, had vanished.
He took a breath, expecting the faint, signature scent of her perfume—a mix of vanilla and something floral he could never name—but the air was stale, lifeless, smelling only of polish and emptiness.
A prickle of irritation, sharp and unwelcome, ran down his spine. This was childish. She was taking this act too far.
He strode through the echoing hall and up the sweeping staircase, his footsteps unnervingly loud in the quiet. He pushed open the door to the master bedroom.
The king-sized bed was impeccably made, a sterile display from a furniture catalog. Her side of the massive walk-in closet was a ghostly expanse of empty hangers and vacant shelves.
He ran a hand over the smooth wood where her sweaters used to be folded in neat, colorful stacks. Nothing.
He opened the top drawer of her vanity out of habit, the place she kept her jewelry. It was empty, save for two items placed deliberately in the center of the velvet lining.
A single, almost-full bottle of Chanel No. 5—the first gift he’d ever given her. And beside it, the simple platinum wedding band he’d slid onto her finger a year ago.
He picked up the ring. It was cold, a dead weight in his palm. It felt insignificant, a prop from a play that had ended its run.
The irritation morphed into a surge of anger. He wasn’t sad; he was insulted.
Did she truly think she could provoke him like this? He was Julian Croft. She was his wife.
This was a temporary, six-month arrangement for Seraphina’s sake, and Elara was turning it into a melodrama.
He tossed the ring back into the drawer, the clatter sharp and final in the silent room. She would come back. She always did.
Across the sprawling, indifferent city, Elara was unpacking the last of her cardboard boxes.
The apartment she had rented under her mother’s maiden name was modest, a world away from the Croft mansion. It had a small galley kitchen, a single bedroom, and a living area with a large, beautiful window that overlooked a street lined with old maple trees.
The late afternoon sun streamed through that window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, golden sprites. The air smelled of fresh paint and her future.
The space was small, but it was profoundly, intoxicatingly hers. It felt more real, more alive, than the gilded cage she had so recently escaped.
Maya had helped her move the few personal belongings she’d taken: her books, her clothes, her father’s old sheet music, and a worn acoustic guitar.
As she placed a framed photo of her smiling parents on a small bookshelf, her phone buzzed with an email notification. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
It was from the producer of “A-Side,” the televised music competition she had submitted a demo to under a pseudonym.
Subject: Your Submission to A-Side
Dear Luna,
The judges panel was exceptionally impressed with your anonymous submission, “Sunken Cargo.” Your unique compositional style and the emotional depth of your lyrics stood out amongst thousands of entries. We are pleased to offer you a slot in the first televised preliminary round. Your performance is scheduled in three days. Please confirm your participation by end of day.
A thrill, pure and electric, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in years, surged through her.
Luna. She smiled at the name she’d chosen. A celestial body that only reflects light, often hidden in the shadow of the sun. It felt appropriate.
This was the first step, a concrete move away from being Elara Vance-Croft, Julian’s shadow. This was her reclaiming her own light.
She walked to the large window, looking down at the bustling street below. A couple walked hand-in-hand, laughing. A child chased a pigeon. Life, in all its simple, beautiful complexity, was happening all around her.
Her hand instinctively drifted to her lower abdomen, where the persistent, dull ache remained a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of her new resolve.
The baby.
Her decision at Sterling Medical Center had felt so clear, so brutally necessary. A clean break. No ties. But now, in the liberating quiet of her own space, a fragile seed of doubt began to sprout.
This child was the last, innocent link to a love she was now determined to forget. But it was also a part of her. A melody she hadn’t written yet.
A life conceived not in love, perhaps, but not in hate either. It was a life.
The week Maya had insisted she wait before the procedure, citing the need to secure a supply of her rare blood type, now felt less like a medical precaution and more like a period of grace.
A lifetime to decide in seven short days. The ache in her belly sharpened, a poignant, physical reminder of the impossible choice that lay ahead.
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