The Days After
1019 Words
He hadn’t spoken to Amara since. Not because he was avoiding her—at least, that’s what he told himself—but because it didn’t make sense to. There was nothing left to say. No promises made. No delusions offered.
But now… something was off.
It wasn’t just her silence. It was his reaction to it.
He noticed it at breakfast every morning since then.
The toast was slightly overdone. A detail he would have ignored, but today it grated. His coffee had too much sugar. Elaine noticed the way he pushed his plate aside and raised a brow, but said nothing.
He checked his watch. 7:03.
Amara usually passed the dining room by now. Quiet as a shadow, carrying linens or polishing trays. She didn’t today.
By 7:12, he realized he was still listening for her footsteps. And that irritated the hell out of him.
At work, he was colder than usual. He snapped at the legal team during a Zoom call and barked at his assistant when she mispronounced a surname.
He tried to blame it on the quarterly report. On the slow market shifts. On the Madrid deal dragging longer than expected.
But all through the day, her face hovered in the back of his mind—eyelids half-lowered, lips parted, the sound of her breath catching in the dark.
He cursed under his breath and rubbed his temples.
This wasn’t supposed to follow him. It was supposed to be over.
He should have never touched her.
By day three, her absence became a presence of its own.
He hadn’t seen her in the hallways. Hadn’t heard her humming from the laundry room. Even the staircase she usually used now felt unused, like the air hadn’t shifted in days.
But then—on Wednesday morning—he walked into the east wing and saw her.
She was walking down the hallway, her hair in a loose bun, head bowed. There was a basket on her hip, filled with clean linens.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Neither did she.
Their eyes met, just briefly.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but she looked away first, dipping her head slightly in a gesture of politeness… or dismissal. He couldn’t tell.
She walked past him without a word.
He turned slowly, watching her disappear around the corner, the hem of her uniform brushing the marble floor.
And he felt something he hadn’t felt in years.
Unsettled.
That night, he poured a drink later than usual. He stood by the window in his study, glass in hand, staring at the moonlit garden. The last time he’d stood there, she had been in his bed.
He hadn’t planned it. She had just… been there. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow.
She hadn’t asked for anything. Not even afterwards.
And yet, her silence now felt different. Sharper. Measured.
Almost like she was… hiding something.
By Friday, he asked Elaine the question.
He’d come in early from a property inspection and dropped his keys in the bowl by the door.
“She’s been quiet,” he said offhandedly, like the words weren’t weighted. “Amara.”
Elaine looked up from the kettle. “She’s always quiet.”
“More than usual.”
Elaine hesitated. “She’s… not unwell, if that’s what you’re asking. But yes. She’s keeping to herself.”
Adrian nodded once. “That’s fine.”
It wasn’t.
But he left the room before she could press further.
He saw Amara again the next day.
She was on the landing, dusting one of the old portraits. He took the stairs two at a time, distracted by an email on his phone—until he noticed her.
This time, she saw him coming.
She froze, her hand clutching the edge of a step ladder.
He paused three feet away.
Her face was paler than usual. Her lips dry. And yet, she didn’t tremble. She just stood there, like she was bracing herself for impact.
The urge to ask her Are you alright? burned in his chest. But the words stayed lodged in his throat.
Instead, he offered the only thing his pride allowed.
“You missed a spot.”
It was stupid. Harsh, even. But it was something.
She blinked slowly, looked back at the frame, and nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Her voice was soft, but there was no tremor in it.
He walked past her without another word. But the scent of her lingered. And his hands stayed clenched the rest of the day.
Sunday came.
He sat in his study, pretending to read. Files were open in front of him—contracts, permits, letters of intent—but none of them held his attention.
He kept thinking about the hallway.
About her face.
About the way she looked like she’d been crying the night before.
Why do you care? his mind snapped.
He didn’t have the answer.
All he knew was that whatever fragile order his life had once held had started to crack the moment he let her into his bed.
And now she was different.
Withdrawn.
And for the first time in a very long time, he was beginning to wonder if silence was more dangerous than words.
He dreamed of her that night.
Not sexually—though his body still remembered hers. This time, in the dream, she was walking away.
Barefoot. Holding something in her hands. A bundle. A box. He couldn’t tell.
He called out, but she didn’t stop.
Didn’t turn.
She just faded into the dark.
He woke up with a jolt, drenched in sweat.
Monday morning, the estate felt too quiet.
He paced the kitchen, irritated at nothing. Snapped at Helen. Rejected breakfast. Sat in the dining room and glared at the door.
At 8:03, she passed by.
They locked eyes for only a second.
But this time… he saw it.
Something behind her gaze.
A heaviness.
A secret.
He didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
But something in him knew, suddenly, that whatever had happened that night between them hadn’t ended in the dark.
It had only just begun.
- Writer
