Chapter 2: The First Morning of Silence
591 Words
The sunlight hit my face with a harshness that felt unearned. Usually, the morning light was my signal to start the frantic dance of his routine—brewing his specific blend of dark roast coffee, ensuring his dry cleaning was laid out, and bracing myself for the brief, distracted kiss on the cheek that I used to live for.
But today, I didn't move.
I stayed under the covers, staring at the ceiling of the guest room. The sting in my heart reminded me of last night. I had expected to cry until my eyes were swollen shut. Instead, I felt a strange, hollowed-out numbness. The "back and forth" Micheal had complained about was over, and it had taken the noise of my life with it.
When I finally stood up, the hardwood floor felt colder than usual. I walked into the kitchen, my footsteps echoing in a way they never did when he was around.
Micheal was already there. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, looking every bit the powerful executive the world knew him to be. He was scrolling through his phone, a cup of coffee—made by his own hands—sitting beside him.
He didn't look up when I entered. "You're late," he said, his voice flat. "I have a board meeting at nine."
I walked past him to the cupboard, reaching for a mug. "And?"
The word was small, but it hung in the air like a challenge. Micheal’s thumb froze on his screen. He slowly lifted his head, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. This was the man who had told me just hours ago that my heartache wasn't justifiable because we weren't "dating."
"The documents for the Sinclair account," he said, as if speaking to a slow-witted employee. "I assume you finished the filing? I need them in my briefcase."
I took a slow sip of my tea, feeling the warmth spread down my throat. For three years, I had acted as his unpaid assistant, his social coordinator, and his emotional support, all in the hopes that he would eventually realize he couldn't live without me.
"I didn't do them," I said calmly.
Micheal stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the tile. "What do you mean you didn't do them? Olivia, don't start this again. We talked about your 'feelings' last night. I thought we were done with the drama."
"We didn't talk. I alone did the talking, and obviously,you weren't listening" I snapped, looking him in the eye. I didn't see a lover there. I didn't even see a friend. I saw a man who had taken everything and offered nothing in return. "Since we aren't dating, Micheal, I’ve decided to stop performing the duties of a wife. You’re a grown man. You can file your own papers. You can make your own coffee. And you can find someone else to wait for you to be 'ready."
The look on his face was priceless. It wasn't regret—not yet. It was the shock of a master realizing his most loyal servant had just walked out the door.
"You're being childish," he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite.
"No," I said, setting my mug down with a firm clack. "I’m being justifiable."
I walked out of the kitchen before he could respond, leaving him standing there in a house that was suddenly too quiet, with a coffee that had already gone cold.
- Writer
