Chapter 4 — The Morning After
1235 Words
I woke up to sunlight spilling across the floor, bringing a sense of calm that felt completely out of place after everything that had happened. For a brief moment, I questioned whether it had all just been a dream. The door. His voice. The way he looked at me.
But as I shifted, every part of me was jolted back to reality.
The sheets still held a faint trace of his scent. My throat felt dry. The room was eerily quiet—too quiet—and I hated that my first instinct was to check if he was still here.
He wasn’t.
His side of the bed was cold. His jacket was gone. The only sign he had been there was the slight dent on the pillow beside mine.
I sat up slowly, my heart racing more than it should have. My body ached in ways that made me furious. Furious because it made everything feel so real. Because it reminded me of how much I had despised him the night before—and how I still let it happen.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the wall. Trying to decide if I should feel ashamed or angry.
By the time I stepped out, the penthouse was spotless again. Someone had come in to clean—of course. He probably told them to tidy up before he left, as if last night hadn’t affected him at all.
I found him in the kitchen. Not looking at me. Not saying a word. Just pouring himself a cup of coffee and scrolling through his phone.
He didn’t even acknowledge my presence.
“Morning,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He glanced up for a split second. “Morning.”
That was it. No pause. No hint of what had happened. Just a word tossed my way as if it meant nothing.
I stood there, wishing for something more—some sign that he remembered. But his face was a blank slate. Cold. Composed.
I wanted to throw the mug across the room just to make him look at me.
“Are you going somewhere?” I asked, forcing the words out.
He didn’t look up from his phone. “Meeting downtown.”
“Of course,” I muttered.
“Did you say something?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
He nodded once, grabbed his coffee, and walked past me as if I didn’t even exist.
That’s how the next few days played out.
He worked. I kept my distance. We navigated the same spaces like two strangers wearing matching rings. He’d leave early, come back late, have dinner in silence, and sleep as if nothing had shifted in his life.
And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe I was the only one stuck replaying it all in my head, the way he looked at me, the way he said “fine” right before everything crumbled.
Every time he walked by, I felt it the weight of something that shouldn’t be hanging between us.
One evening, I found myself watching him from across the living room. He was sprawled on the couch, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, absorbed in something on his laptop. So calm. So composed.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he ever thought about it. About me.
Then I hated myself for even thinking that.
I told myself to stop caring. To stop feeling. But every time I saw him, it was like the air thickened, as if there was something in the silence that neither of us wanted to face.
By the fifth night, I’d had enough. I needed to clear my head, so I stayed up late, curled up on the couch with a blanket, pretending to read.
When I heard the elevator doors open, I glanced at the clock, just past midnight.
He was finally back home.
The first thing that hit me was the smell—whiskey, faint but sharp. He wasn’t stumbling or slurring his words, but there was a certain looseness to his movements. Controlled, yet not quite like he usually was.
As soon as he walked in, his eyes found mine. No words were exchanged, just that steady gaze that twisted my stomach into knots.
"Late night?" I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.
He loosened his tie and shrugged. "Work, dinner."
"Didn’t think work involved whiskey."
He raised an eyebrow. "You’ve been keeping tabs on me now?"
"I just noticed," I replied. "You smell like a distillery."
He stepped closer, moving slowly and deliberately. "Maybe I needed it."
"Why? Guilt?"
Something flickered in his eyes, and I instantly regretted bringing it up.
He stopped right in front of me, close enough that I could catch the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the alcohol. "You really think I feel guilt?"
"I don’t know," I said softly. "You’re good at hiding everything else."
His jaw tightened. "Be careful, Ava."
"There it is again," I shot back. "The warning. You always have one."
He stared at me for what felt like an eternity before finally saying, "Go to bed."
I didn’t move. "You’re not my boss."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "And you’re not in control here. Don’t forget that."
The air between us thickened, creating a silence that felt almost electric. I could feel my pulse racing in my throat.
"Then why are you still here?" I whispered.
He looked at me as if he didn’t have an answer, or maybe he had one, he just wasn’t ready to share.
"I told you to go to bed," he repeated.
"Or what?"
The corner of his mouth twitched, as if I had just dared him to take a risk.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he reached for me, slowly, steadily, as if giving me a chance to pull away. I didn’t.
His hand brushed against my jaw, tilting my face up. My breath caught before I could even think to stop it.
I should have spoken up. I should have pushed him away. But he was too close, and I was too worn out from pretending I didn’t care.
"Stop," I murmured, even though it didn’t sound very convincing.
He didn’t stop.
His fingers traced my neck, his gaze fixed on me, sharp and unyielding. "Tell me you don’t want this," he said softly.
I opened my mouth, but the words just wouldn’t come.
He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against my ear. "That’s what I thought."
And just like that, the space between us disappeared.
The world around us faded—the air, the sounds, everything until all that was left was the heavy, electric connection between us, impossible to escape.
I hated him for it. I loathed myself even more.
When it was over, he didn’t say a word. He simply stood up, straightened his shirt, and walked out of the room.
No glance. No apology. No acknowledgment.
Just silence.
I stayed there, my heart racing, staring at the door long after it had closed. My skin still buzzed from his touch, my thoughts a tangled mess I couldn’t sort out.
Maybe this was what I had signed up for. A marriage built on power and silence. And me, stuck somewhere between hatred and a feeling I shouldn't have felt.
- Writer
