She left with a suitcase
1332 Words
In the morning.
Otthen awoke to the pale light filtering through the drawn curtains, his head throbbing as if it had been crushed under the weight of his own choices.
He groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead, wincing at the dull ache pulsing through his skull. The events of the previous night came back to him in fragments his confrontation with Cambrik, her anger, the defiance in her voice as she’d tried to leave. He had been too drunk, too angry, to process any of it properly. Now, in the cold light of day, the reality settled over him like a shadow.
The house was too quiet, an oppressive silence that weighed down on him, starker in the light of morning.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, bracing himself against the night stand as he fought the waves of nausea and disorientation that still clung to him. He needed to find her, to talk to her.
Last night, he’d dismissed her anger as some passing outburst, assuming she’d cool off, come back to him by morning, ready to talk things through, as she always did.
But as he stumbled into the hallway, an uneasy feeling crept up his spine. The house was still and empty, the echoes of his own footsteps loud against the walls. He made his way downstairs, each step an uncomfortable reminder of the night before, his guilt gnawing at him, sharp and unforgiving.
When he reached the living room, he stopped short. The photographs lining the hallway wall had been shattered, the glass fragments swept hastily into a pile beside the frames.
The wedding pictures of them together, once symbols of their life and love, lay in broken pieces. He stared at them, the sickening realization sinking in.
“Cambrik?” he called out, his voice hoarse, echoing through the empty space.
No answer.
A rush of panic surged through him, cutting through his headache, and he turned, moving through each room, looking for any sign of her.
But there was nothing—no purse, no coat, no trace of her at all. The mansion felt cold, stripped of her presence, as if she had taken the warmth of the place with her.
In the kitchen, he noticed a note lying on the counter. It was scrawled hastily, a few sharp words written in her unmistakable hand.
"Otthen, I’m done waiting for you to remember what you promised me. I’ll find my own way now."
He stared at the note, a bitter taste filling his mouth as he read it over and over, the words blurring, burning into his mind. His heart pounded as he felt the first real pangs of fear, the weight of what he had done settling like iron in his stomach.
He hadn’t believed she would actually leave, that she would break away from him, from the life they had built. She had always been there, waiting for him, steady and patient, enduring his neglect with a quiet strength he’d taken for granted.
But now, reading her words, he realized she was gone—not just from this house, but from him.
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The early morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the vast Neor mansion’s main hall, casting long streaks of golden light over the polished marble floor.
Otthen Neor stood at the edge of the room, a silhouette of controlled power in his crisp suit, the lines of his jaw tight, his hands clasped behind his back.
The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner. It was a silence that carried weight, as if the mansion itself held its breath. The air was thick with the remnants of a night gone wrong—a night that had left traces in the scattered papers on the side table, the overturned glass of whiskey on the mahogany desk.
Mark stepped into the room with urgency, his polished shoes clacking against the marble. He was a stark contrast to Otthen, younger and less composed, his shirt collar slightly wrinkled from the stress of the morning. He stopped a few feet from Otthen, clearing his throat before speaking.
“Sir,” Mark began, his voice low but strained, “earlier this morning… Mrs. Cambrik Neor left the mansion.”
Otthen turned sharply, his dark eyes narrowing, cutting through Mark like a blade. His posture, rigid and commanding, demanded immediate clarification.
“Left?” Otthen’s voice was sharp, each syllable crisp, his disbelief evident. “With whose permission? How did this happen?”
Mark shifted uneasily, his gaze flickering between Otthen and the floor. “Security guards saw her leaving, sir. She had a suitcase.”
The words hit Otthen like a sudden gust of cold wind. He took a step forward, his polished shoes clicking against the floor, his presence looming over Mark. His hands, once clasped behind him, now hung at his sides, clenched into fists.
“And how,” Otthen asked, his tone dangerously low, “did a car get past the gates of my mansion without my knowledge?”
Mark swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His voice cracked slightly as he replied, “No car came, sir. At least… not any regular car.”
Otthen’s brow furrowed deeply, his jaw tightening further. “Then how the hell did she leave?” His voice was sharp, a blade honed by frustration.
Mark hesitated, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. Finally, he answered, his words tumbling out. “It was… your business partner’s car, sir. Solen Hawt’s car.”
The room seemed to tilt, the air growing heavier. Otthen’s expression shifted from disbelief to something darker—something that simmered with restrained fury. His breathing quickened, his broad chest rising and falling under his tailored suit.
“Solen?” Otthen’s voice was a growl now, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made Mark flinch. “You’re telling me she left with him?”
Mark nodded reluctantly, his gaze avoiding Otthen’s piercing stare. “Yes, sir. That’s what security reported.”
Otthen’s hand shot out, slamming against the edge of the desk, sending a stack of documents scattering onto the floor. The sharp c***k of the impact echoed through the room, startling Mark and reverberating in the oppressive silence.
Mark stepped back instinctively, his heart racing. “Sir, I—”
“Enough.” Otthen cut him off, his voice cold as steel. He turned away, walking to the window with deliberate strides. The morning light bathed his face, illuminating the storm of emotions etched into his features—anger, confusion, and a hint of something deeper, something vulnerable.
He rested his hands on the windowsill, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. The view of the sprawling estate beyond—the manicured gardens, the pristine fountains—did nothing to soothe the tempest inside him.
For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint sound of Otthen’s breathing and the rustle of Mark’s nervous movements. Then Otthen spoke again, his voice softer but no less intense.
“Find out where they’ve gone,” he said, his tone a command that brooked no argument. “And bring me every detail, every damn detail, Mark.”
Mark nodded quickly, almost stumbling over his words in his haste. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
Otthen didn’t turn as Mark hurried out of the room, the sound of his retreating footsteps fading into the distance. Left alone, Otthen stared out at the horizon, his reflection in the glass betraying the war within him.
“Solen…” he muttered under his breath, the name dripping with venom. His hands loosened their grip on the windowsill, falling to his sides. For a moment, he closed his eyes, exhaling deeply as the weight of betrayal pressed against his chest.
But when he opened them again, they were filled with a dangerous resolve, a fire that would not be extinguished.
- Writer
