CHAPTER THREE: CRACKS IN THE FRAME
997 Words
The morning sun spilled softly through the tall windows, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. Ariella heard the clicking of heels before she saw her.
Susan.
Immaculate as always—tailored navy pantsuit, sleek ponytail, and her signature nude lipstick. A designer bag hung from her wrist like it had been made for her.
“Lucian, I’m off. Don’t forget the investor dinner this weekend,” she said without looking up from her phone. She was already halfway through the front door.
Lucian stood a few feet away in the foyer, dressed casually in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, a mug in his hand. He looked relaxed—too relaxed.
Ariella, watching quietly from the stairs, noticed the way his fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his cup.
“I won’t forget,” he said, voice even.
Susan gave a distracted wave and disappeared out the door. A car engine started outside, and a few seconds later, the sound of tires crunching down the driveway faded into the distance.
Lucian remained still.
He didn’t move. Didn’t sip his drink. His eyes stayed fixed on the door she had exited from, long after she was gone.
It only lasted a few seconds, but Ariella saw it—that flicker of something. Not heartbreak. Not anger. Just… absence. Something had gone missing in that space, and he hadn’t gone looking for it.
She padded back down the hall before he could see her.
The balcony was her favorite part of the house.
It overlooked the garden, with neatly trimmed hedges, a trickling fountain, and the rustle of tall trees swaying in the late morning breeze. Ariella curled into the armchair with a book resting on her knees, her bare feet tucked beneath her. A cup of herbal tea steamed softly beside her.
Reading usually calmed her. But today, the words on the page blurred. She kept thinking about the quiet way Lucian had watched Susan leave.
The sliding door behind her whispered open.
She turned, startled.
Lucian stepped out, coffee mug in hand. He wore a soft black sweater now, the sleeves pushed up again. Always neat. Always clean lines.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, nodding toward the opposite chair.
“You’re not,” she replied, quickly marking her page and sitting up straighter.
They sat in silence for a moment. Only the wind moved between them.
“What are you reading?” he asked eventually.
Ariella hesitated, then lifted the book to show him the title: Love in the Time of Cholera.
He nodded. “A romantic.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. It’s not really about a perfect kind of love though.”
Lucian leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other. “Is there such a thing?”
Ariella smiled faintly, unsure whether it was a genuine question or a rhetorical one. “I’d like to think there is.”
He looked at her, eyes steady but not cold. “And what do you think it looks like?”
She glanced away, watching the sunlight flicker through the trees. “I don’t know. I guess… it’s not loud. It’s steady. Safe. Something that makes you feel like you can breathe easier around them.”
Lucian was quiet for a long moment.
“That’s a good answer,” he said finally. “Most people confuse love with adrenaline.”
She tilted her head. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you believe in love?”
The question hung between them. A breeze passed, carrying the scent of fresh jasmine from the garden below.
Lucian stared into his coffee, then exhaled slowly. “I believe… love can exist. But not always in the way we expect. Not always in the way we want.”
There was something in his voice—a tiredness. Not bitter. Just... worn.
Ariella didn’t speak. Didn’t push.
He looked over at her again, and for a moment, their eyes held.
Neither said a word.
Then he stood. “Enjoy your book.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Dinner that evening was quiet.
With Susan out for the night at some work event, the staff had prepared something simpler—grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, and sautéed greens. Ariella ate alone at the long dining table while soft classical music played from the ceiling speakers.
When she was done, she stood and gathered her plate and glass, heading toward the kitchen.
Martha looked up from where she was wiping the counter. “You didn’t have to bring that in, dear. I would’ve come for it.”
“I don’t mind,” Ariella said softly, setting it down by the sink.
Martha gave her a soft smile and began rinsing the dish. Ariella grabbed a cloth and started drying.
For a while, they worked in companionable silence.
Then, as Martha passed her the last fork, she spoke gently—like someone offering advice without crossing a line.
“Mr. Thorne is… thoughtful. Not everyone notices it, but he is.”
Ariella glanced at her. “He seems distant sometimes.”
Martha paused, setting the sponge down. “Still waters don’t always mean peace, dear. Sometimes, they just run deep.”
Ariella turned that over in her mind.
Martha dried her hands and gave her a quiet, almost knowing look. “Just because things look polished on the outside doesn’t mean they’re not worn underneath.”
And with that, she picked up the last plate and smiled kindly. “Now go rest. You’ve had a long day.”
That night, Ariella lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above her.
Lucian’s words echoed in her mind. “Not always in the way we want.”
Something inside her shifted.
He wasn’t just her sister’s husband anymore.
He was a man with shadows—ones she didn’t yet understand, but could feel brushing close.
And somehow, that scared her more than anything.
- Writer
