Nicholas
The silence between us over the weekend wasn't the cold, distant quiet of strangers. It was the thick, unbearable static of two people who had stepped over a precipice and didn't know how to climb back up.
Faith avoided me with surgical precision. She took her meals early, lingered in Noah’s playroom until late into the evening, and kept the double doors connecting our suites firmly closed.
By Monday morning, I couldn't take it anymore.
I caught her in the glass sunroom just after breakfast. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a warm cup of tea with her left hand, looking out over the manicured grounds.
"Faith," I said, stepping into the room.
She stiffened, her gaze remaining fixed on the gardens outside. "Nicholas. I was just about to help Noah pack his gym
