Strange Attitude
999 Words
The morning air was cold and crisp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and the distant promise of rain. Above me, the sky hung heavy with gray clouds—those silent watchers that never wept, only lingered—just like the thoughts swirling relentlessly in my mind.
Today, I was leaving early—before the house stirred, before questions could be asked. Especially before Francis could ask.
I slid into the driver’s seat, closing the door with a muted thud. Outside sounds dimmed, muffled—just as I had insulated myself from the world. From my own feelings.
My gaze fixed on the gatehouse, small and distant.
From here, it looked unremarkable. Almost forgettable.
But I could never forget.
Not the way he had looked at me. Not how deeply he had seen me. Not how much I missed him.
*It’s better this way,* I whispered to myself.
I exhaled slowly and started the engine. The car came alive with a quiet, confident hum—like the woman behind the wheel. From the center console, I pulled out my sunglasses, sliding them on. Their dark lenses shielded more than my eyes.
The coupe rolled forward along the winding driveway. My fingers brushed the control panel. The driver’s side mirror extended with a soft mechanical whir.
My hand froze.
Then, with deliberate intent, I pressed the button to retract it.
The side mirror folded inward, swallowing the shrinking image of the gatehouse—until it disappeared completely.
I didn’t need to look back.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
---
The gates slid open with a slow, mechanical sigh. My jaw clenched tight. The silence inside the car was deafening—the kind that echoed in the empty spaces of my chest, squeezing until it was hard to breathe.
This wasn’t just another business trip.
I hadn’t told my assistant where I was headed. No board meetings. No carefully scripted public appearances.
Just a hotel reservation booked under my mother’s maiden name. An overnight bag tossed carelessly in the trunk.
I was running.
Not from Francis.
From myself.
Because no one had ever been allowed past the fortress built around my ambition. No one had stayed long enough to see what loneliness looked like at the top.
Francis—quiet, steady Francis—had not only seen it. He had stayed.
And that terrified me.
---
Miles slipped away beneath the tires. Trees blurred past. The road stretched ahead, a ribbon unraveling into an uncertain future.
I kept the mirror folded away.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
But my mind refused to obey.
I remembered his fingers brushing mine as he handed me a book. The patient wait when I struggled to find the right words. The quiet strength that never demanded more than I could give—but made me want to give everything.
I remembered the note left on my doorstep.
*I’m not afraid of what loving you means.*
But I was.
Because loving Francis meant surrender—and I had spent my life fighting, winning, leading.
Never surrendering.
Not until now.
---
An hour later, I pulled off at a lonely rest stop overlooking a glassy lake. The water mirrored the heavy sky, still and cold.
I killed the engine and sat, fingers tapping the steering wheel. Silence swallowed me whole.
Reaching into my bag, I pulled out my phone.
One missed call from Martha.
No messages from Francis.
Of course not.
He had given me space—patient, respectful.
But beneath that space lay something deeper.
Belief. That I would come back.
That I would choose him.
Leaning back, I exhaled slowly.
My eyes flicked to the side panel. The mirror was still folded away, like it was hiding something I didn’t want to face.
In a sudden, impulsive movement, I flipped the switch.
The mirror unfolded with a soft click.
For a brief moment, my own reflection stared back.
Not the CEO.
Not the woman everyone feared or admired.
Just me.
A woman tired of pretending she didn’t want to return.
---
It began to rain on the drive home.
Not a storm.
Just a gentle veil blurring the windshield, mirroring the haze in my chest.
I didn’t rush.
Let the car glide slowly beneath me, uncertain of where the road would lead—but finally ready to follow.
By the time I reached the estate gates, dusk had fallen.
The gatehouse lights glowed warmly.
I parked halfway up the drive, killed the engine, and sat in silence.
This time, I left the mirror unfolded.
I looked at myself—the tired, uncertain, real woman I was becoming—and knew what I needed to do.
I wouldn’t run.
I stepped out.
---
One foot.
Then another.
Gravel crunched beneath my heels.
The night held its breath, reverent, expectant.
The gatehouse light spilled golden across the path.
Familiar. Inviting.
Through the window, I saw him.
Francis.
His back turned, leaning over a desk, flipping through a file.
Focused. Still. Unaware.
I raised my hand to knock.
Then—
He turned.
Not toward me.
Toward someone else.
A woman stood in the room.
Late thirties.
Sharp suit.
A manila folder clutched tightly.
And something else in her posture.
Urgency.
Authority.
Secrets.
Francis spoke—words lost to me—but his face changed.
No surprise.
No anger.
Only resignation.
The woman handed him the folder.
He opened it.
Read a few lines.
Closed it slowly.
Then looked up.
Straight at the window.
Straight at me.
Our eyes locked.
And for the first time since I had known him, Francis Hale looked afraid.
---
I swallowed hard, the cold settling in my bones.
Before I could move, the woman’s voice cut through the quiet—
“Marie Montgomery, we need to talk.”
---
*My breath caught. The night seemed to close in around me.*
*What did she know?*
*What had Francis been hiding all along?*
*And how much more was I about to lose?*
- Writer
