In Between Whispers

Behind the Walls

The office felt quieter than usual without Arthur’s presence. For the first time since Verona, his absence stretched beyond a day, long enough to unsettle Lyra. He had called her at the start of the week, voice hoarse and faint, to let her know he’d caught something, maybe a fever, maybe just exhaustion and wouldn't be coming in.

“Cancel my appointments this week,” he said, a rare vulnerability creeping into his usual composed tone. “I need to rest.”

Lyra, concerned but understanding, assured him she'd take care of everything. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she’d said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

By Friday, she had managed to juggle the meetings, reports, and office chatter that never seemed to end. But just as she sat down to breathe, her phone rang.

“Miss Elizalde?” The sharp tone of Mr. Brown cut through the hum of the office. “I was expecting a go-signal from Arthur today. Where are the signed drafts?”

Lyra straightened in her chair. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Brown. Mr. Vale is currently ill and hasn’t been able to attend to his approvals. He instructed me to hold everything until next week.”

There was a beat of silence, and then a clipped reply. “That’s unacceptable. If I don’t get his input today, we pull the plug.”

Lyra’s heart sank. This was one of their biggest accounts and losing it would mean more than just paperwork. She glanced at Arthur’s untouched office and made a quick decision.

“I understand. I’ll make sure it’s taken care of today.”

She hung up, papers trembling slightly in her hands.

At first, she thought of sending the documents through a messenger or having them delivered to his driver. But something inside her—perhaps the silence of the past few days, or the look in Arthur’s eyes that night at the garden café—urged her to go herself.

After a quick call to Arthur’s driver, she was inside the backseat of the car, watching the city blur past. The drive took nearly an hour. The urban bustle faded into rows of polished gates and manicured trees as they entered a prestigious residential village.

As the gates opened, Lyra caught her breath.

Arthur’s house—if you could call it that—was more like a mansion tucked in a secret garden. The exterior was elegant yet wild in its beauty. Ivy curled along stone walls, and flower beds bloomed in every corner. The entire estate looked like it belonged in an oil painting.

“You can call me when you’re ready to go,” the driver said warmly. “My wife and I live just behind the house now. Arthur brought us along when he moved from the old place.”

Lyra stepped out, papers in hand, and approached the door, which opened before she could even knock.

A woman in her late fifties greeted her with a surprised but pleasant smile. “You must be Miss Lyra. Come in, come in.”

The moment she entered, the contrast startled her. The inside of the house was nothing like the blooming chaos outside. It was minimalist, quiet, filled with deep tones—black marble floors, charcoal walls, and sleek furniture. Everything screamed control and order. No personal photos. No warmth.

Like the man himself.

“I’ll take you to him,” the woman said softly. I’ve been trying to get him to eat more, but he’s stubborn. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

She led Lyra through a hallway and into a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the garden. Arthur was in bed, a blanket pulled up over his chest. He looked thinner, paler.

His eyes opened slowly at the sound of footsteps. Surprise flickered across his face when he saw her.

“Lyra,” he croaked, trying to sit up.

She rushed over, setting the folder on the bedside table. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“I didn’t expect…” He trailed off, his voice rough with sleep and illness.

“I had to,” she said, managing a small smile. “Mr. Brown gave me an ultimatum. I figured it was safer to take these in person.”

Arthur nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her longer than necessary. She looked effortlessly soft in a light linen dress, her hair tied in a loose knot, no makeup except a gentle hue of blush and the faintest shade of lipstick. There was something disarming about her presence, like a breeze that stirred a still room.

As she opened the folder and began laying out the documents, he studied her face more than the papers.

“I can help you go through them,” she offered.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

She looked at him, meeting his tired gaze. “Maybe not. But I wanted to.”

And she did. The longer she stayed, the more she saw what the house tried to hide. The exterior may have screamed wealth and success, but the inside told another story—one of solitude, silence, and a man who, despite all he’d built, had no one to share it with.

“You live alone?” she asked gently as they worked through a proposal.

Arthur nodded. “Always have. Never remarried. No children.”

“What about your family?”

“They’re around,” he said, voice clipped. “Just not here.”

He didn't elaborate, but Lyra remembered the story he told her at the garden café—the forced marriage, the family pressure, the hollow victories.

She looked around the vast, dark interior again. “Your house… it’s beautiful. But it feels a little…”

“Empty,” he finished for her.

Lyra met his eyes. “I was going to stay quiet. But yes. Empty too.”

He chuckled, and then coughed. She reached for the glass on his bedside table and helped him sip. Her hand lingered near his.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She shrugged. “I know. But I want to.”

They finished the paperwork slowly, with Lyra reading him sections aloud and checking notes with careful precision. When he finally leaned back, exhausted but satisfied, she took the dishes the driver’s wife had left and insisted he eat something before sleeping.

And to everyone’s surprise, including his own, he did. More than he had in recent days.

Later that evening, the driver’s wife gently knocked on the door.

“You’ll stay the night, won’t you?” she asked Lyra hopefully. He finally ate something. He smiled. He spoke. I haven’t seen him like that in so long.”

Lyra hesitated. It was the weekend tomorrow. No meetings. No Carrie.

She looked back at Arthur, who was already drifting to sleep, his breathing steady.

“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll stay.”

That night, Lyra sat by the glass wall, looking out at the garden. The house was quiet except for the steady ticking of a distant clock. Arthur slept peacefully for the first time in days, a faint expression of calm settling on his face.

And Lyra, curled up in a plush armchair with a soft throw wrapped around her, couldn’t help but think about the strange turn of events.

She came to deliver papers.

Now she found herself wanting to stay.

There was something about Arthur—behind the suits, the boardrooms, the authority—that drew her in. A sadness she recognized. A strength she respected. A part of him she didn’t yet understand but wanted to.

And as the moonlight spilled into the dark room, softening its sharp edges, Lyra closed her eyes and thought:

Maybe something was blooming here too.

Not in the garden.

But in her.