The decision didn’t come from anger.
It didn’t come from betrayal, or even from a single moment that could be pointed to and named.
It came from exhaustion.
The kind that built slowly, quietly, over time. The kind that didn’t demand attention until it was already too deep to ignore.
Aira had spent the evening sitting at the edge of their bed, her hands resting loosely in her lap, her posture still despite the restless thoughts moving through her. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, but the quiet wasn’t complete.
Lucien’s voice carried faintly from the study down the hall.
Low.
Controlled.
Measured.
The same tone he used in boardrooms and negotiations. Calm. Authoritative. Detached.
She used to admire that about him.
Back when it felt like strength.
