The night passed slowly—one thick, suffocating hour at a time.
Isabelle didn’t cry. That would have been easier, maybe. Tears were at least an outlet. But this? This was something else. She just lay there, silent and still, wrapped around her own quiet ache while the man she loved pulled further and further into himself.
The c***k in the ceiling stared back at her.
She used to count its angles when she couldn’t sleep in this room years ago—back when they were married but distant. Back when silence was routine. Back when she had learned to fall asleep beside a man who felt like a stranger more often than a partner.
And she hated how familiar it felt now.
When Sebastian finally came in again after slipping out of the bedroom —quietly, cautiously—her body stiffened instinctively. She did
