Alan
The days following Cyril’s return to the Vance manor were quiet but not empty.
Mornings began with a shared routine, though neither of us verbalized it.
She would leave the house with a precise efficiency I had always admired, hair tied back neatly, blouse tucked into her skirt, heels clicking lightly against the marble floors.
I would watch her go, feeling the familiar tug of protectiveness and longing, but holding back...always holding back because she deserved the space she had earned, the independence she had fought for in the past weeks.
At the office, we became two separate entities again, coexisting in the same space without acknowledging the pulse that had once threatened to undo us.
Cyril moved through the corridors with quiet confidence, her posture impeccable, her g
