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.
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