Episode4
1409 Words
Adrian didn’t know how to braid hair.
But that didn’t stop him from trying.
He sat on the sunlit terrace with Alora on a cushion between his knees, her tiny fingers gripping a mermaid toy, babbling about sea kingdoms and ice cream. Adrian held a comb awkwardly in one hand, a rubber band clenched between his teeth.
From the doorway, Leona watched, arms crossed, caught somewhere between heartbreak and laughter.
“You’re going to pull her scalp off,” she said finally.
Adrian looked up, rubber band still dangling from his lips. “I Googled a tutorial.”
Leona arched a brow. “You’re six hair ties in. That’s not a braid, it’s a power line.”
Alora giggled. “It hurts, Daddy.”
Adrian dropped the comb. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I thought I had it this time.”
“You don’t,” Leona said gently, walking over. She crouched beside them and reached for the comb. “Let me.”
Adrian moved aside without argument.
Her fingers worked fast and gently. In less than a minute, Alora’s curls were twisted into a loose side braid, neat and sweet. She kissed the top of her daughter’s head.
“All done.”
Alora beamed. “Pretty, Mommy!”
“You’re always pretty,” Leona whispered.
Adrian said nothing. He was watching her hands.
“How long did it take you to learn that?” he asked.
“Three months,” she replied, brushing the curls off Alora’s forehead. “She used to scream. I used to cry, We figured it out together.”
Adrian’s voice dropped. “I should’ve been there.”
Leona didn’t look at him. “But you weren’t.”
Later that day, he knocked on her door again.
Not because he had something to say. But because he couldn’t stop thinking about her hands. The way they moved without fear. The way they knew things—like memory never left her.
Leona sat by the window, sketching with a charcoal pencil. A half-finished drawing of Amara. Her lips twitched when he entered, but she didn’t stop shading.
“You keep doing that,” he said.
“What?”
“Drawing. Like the world’s going to disappear if you don’t catch it in time.”
She set the pencil down. “It already did, Adrian. For you.”
He sat across from her, arms resting on his knees. “I found something in my office. A box.”
She froze.
“Two rings and a folded paper. Contract.” His voice grew quieter. “It was signed by me. And by you.”
Leona’s throat tightened. “The prenup.”
“I didn’t expect one,” he said. “But I read it. You wanted… autonomy. No claims to my assets. No name rights. No press.”
“I asked for boundaries,” she said. “You thought it was rejection.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No,” Leona whispered. “It was protection. For both of us.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment. “Why didn’t I fight harder?”
“You did. You just used all the wrong weapons.”
Adrian leaned back, exhaling. “I don’t recognize the man I was.”
“Neither did I, eventually.”
“But you married me anyway.”
“I married the parts of you that hadn’t learned how to destroy.”
He went quiet again. Then, softly, “And did I destroy you, Leona?”
Her eyes filled.
“I’m still standing,” she whispered. “But it took a long time to put myself back together.”
That night, he dreamed of their wedding.
It wasn’t like the lavish ceremonies he’d attended in Monte Carlo or Milan. No orchestra, no diamonds. No press.
It was candlelight and silence. A chapel carved into a cliffside in southern France. She wore no veil. He wore no tie. Her hands shook when she said his name.
He woke up drenched in sweat.
And a single word echoing in his head: Mine.
The next morning, he found her in the kitchen again.
Leona was barefoot, humming to herself as she flipped pancakes. The scent of cinnamon and butter wrapped around the room like a memory. Alora danced in her pajamas near the sink, holding a banana like a microphone.
Adrian leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
“This feels… familiar.”
“It should,” Leona said, without turning. “This is the only part of us that felt normal. Sunday mornings.”
“I didn’t work on Sundays?”
“You tried.” She glanced over her shoulder. “But I made you stop.”
Alora ran over to him. “Pancakes!”
He scooped her up and kissed her cheek. “Your mom makes the best.”
“She does everything best,” Alora whispered.
Leona’s hand paused mid-flip. She said nothing.
Adrian set the girl down and walked over to the counter. “Can I help?”
“You’ll burn the kitchen.”
He smiled faintly. “I meant set the table.”
She nodded. “Cabinet by the fridge.”
They moved around each other in quiet rhythm, passing plates, pouring juice, slicing fruit. It felt surreal. Like a memory unfolding in real time.
Adrian watched her carefully. Every movement, every hesitation.
“Can I ask you something?” he said, over the sound of a pan sizzling.
“You already did.”
He waited.
Leona sighed. “Go on.”
“When you left… where did you go first?”
She hesitated. “Nairobi. I stayed with my cousin for two weeks. Then Geneva. Then Lucerne.”
He nodded slowly. “You didn’t take anything.”
“I didn’t want anything.”
“Not even the ring?”
“I left it on your desk. Next to a letter you never read.”
He stared. “How do you know I didn’t?”
“Because if you had, you would’ve come after me.”
He swallowed hard. “I wish I remembered the letter.”
“You don’t need to,” she whispered. “It wasn’t for this version of you.”
They ate on the terrace again. The sky was cloudless, and Alora dipped her pancake in syrup, giggling when it stuck to her chin. Adrian wiped it gently with a napkin.
“Mommy says you forgot everything,” she said.
He nodded slowly. “Most things. But not you.”
“Really?”
He hesitated. “Not yet. But I’m trying.”
“Can you forget again if you don’t like us?”
Leona stiffened. Adrian stared at the little girl.
“I wouldn’t want to,” he said softly.
“Even if Mommy yells at you?”
“Even then.”
Alora looked satisfied. “Okay.”
Leona didn’t speak. Her throat was too tight.
Later that day, Leona sat alone in the greenhouse behind the estate. She hadn’t come here since she left. It smelled like lemons and roses, earth and light.
The door creaked open.
Adrian stepped in, holding something in his hand.
A folded paper. Worn at the edges.
“My letter?” she said softly.
“I found it last night.”
She didn’t move.
He opened it, reading aloud:
“If you ever care enough to read this, it means you’re still breathing. And if you’re still breathing, I hope it hurts. Not because I wish you pain but because it means you can still feel.”
He looked up. “I deserved that.”
“You did.”
He took a slow breath.
“I didn’t stop loving you. I stopped loving what you became. And I left because I knew if I stayed, I’d disappear.”
Adrian’s voice shook.
“I read it three times. And I remembered… the night you almost left me before. Before the baby. Before the ring.”
She looked away. “I came back, then.”
“But now you’re here again.”
“For our daughter.”
“And if I become that man again?”
“I’ll leave again,” Leona said, voice firm. “And this time, you won’t find us.”
Adrian nodded.
“Then I’ll give you no reason to run.”
That night, he stood in the hallway outside her door. He didn’t knock.
He just stood there, listening.
And for the first time in years, Leona slept without waking.
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