POV: Lydia Hart
The morning after the storm, London was washed clean: streets shining, air crisp, the kind of deceptive brightness that made you think everything was fine.
It wasn't.
I woke to an empty bed and the faint smell of Damian's cologne on the pillow beside me. He'd gone before dawn, as he sometimes did when work consumed him. Normally, I didn't mind; I was used to his long hours and late nights. But this morning, something about the silence felt wrong.
Last night, when he came home, he'd been… off. Quiet, distracted, watching me with a look I couldn't name. When I asked if something had happened at the meeting, he'd only said, "Just a long day."
Then he'd kissed me like he was trying to remember how.
Now, as I sat by the window with my coffee, staring out at the gray skyline, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was losing something I hadn't realized was slipping away.
My phone buzzed. A message from Alexandra.
Alex : Are you free for lunch today?
Me: Always. Where?
Alex : Somewhere quiet.
That wasn't like her. Alexandra hated quiet restaurants; she thrived on places with noise and motion, places that mirrored her own relentless pace. I frowned, typing back a quick Sure. You pick.
I spent the next hour trying to distract myself with wedding details, but even the sparkle of my engagement ring seemed duller than usual. It wasn't nerves. It was something else; something heavier, like a shadow creeping over what should have been happiness.
By the time I arrived at the restaurant, Alexandra was already there. She looked impeccable, as always, but her expression was unreadable. The kind of mask only she could wear so perfectly.
"Lydia," she greeted, standing to hug me. Her perfume was sharp and expensive, clean lines and cold steel. "You look tired."
I laughed softly. "You sound like Damian."
Something flickered in her eyes at his name. It was so fast I almost missed it.
We ordered, and for a while, we talked about nothing: flowers, dresses, charity events. But her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and her hands, usually so steady, played with the rim of her glass.
Finally, I asked, "What's going on with you? You seem… distracted."
She hesitated. "Do I?"
"Yes. And don't lie to me, Alex. I've known you for twelve years. You only stir your drink when something's wrong."
A small smile tugged at her lips, but it didn't last. "It's nothing you need to worry about."
"Try me."
She met my gaze then: steady, intent, almost searching. For a second, I saw something in her eyes that unsettled me. Pity, maybe. Or guilt.
"Lydia," she said slowly, "has Damian seemed… distant lately?"
The question caught me off guard. "Distant?" I repeated. "No. Well, maybe a little. He's under a lot of pressure with the new CrossTech expansion."
"Right," she said quietly. "Of course."
But there was more. I could feel it in the way she looked away too quickly, in the tension behind her perfect posture.
"What is this about?" I asked, leaning forward. "Did he say something to you?"
She froze. Just for a heartbeat. Then she smiled again too smoothly. "No. Just curious."
The lie was so elegant it almost worked.
Almost.
I leaned back, studying her. "You know, Alex, for someone who claims to despise drama, you look like you're hiding a plot twist."
That earned me a real laugh, soft and brittle. "You've been spending too much time around me."
"Guilty," I said, smiling. But the warmth between us felt different now: fragile, strained.
By the time lunch ended, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.
We hugged goodbye, and I felt her hold on a little longer than usual. When she pulled back, her eyes met mine with something I couldn't define. A warning, maybe. Or regret.
That night, Damian didn't come home until late. I was pretending to read on the sofa when he walked in.
"Long day?" I asked.
He nodded, loosening his tie. "Long week."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He hesitated, and for a moment, I thought he might. But then he said, "Not tonight."
He kissed my forehead and went straight to the study.
When I followed him a few minutes later, the door was half open. He was standing by the window again, looking out at the city lights the way he always did when he was trying not to feel something.
"Damian," I said softly, "did something happen?"
He turned, startled. For a brief second, I thought I saw guilt flicker in his eyes, quick and sharp as lightning. Then it was gone.
"No," he said. "Nothing happened."
But his voice betrayed him.
"Then why do I feel like you're somewhere else when you're standing right in front of me?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at me with that same unreadable expression, the one that made me feel both loved and locked out.
I crossed the room, slipping my arms around his waist. "Whatever this is, we can fix it," I whispered.
He rested his chin lightly on my head. "Can we?"
The question chilled me.
We stood there for a long time, wrapped in a silence that didn't feel safe anymore.
Later, when he finally fell asleep beside me, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying Alexandra's question in my mind.
Has Damian seemed distant lately?
By morning, I couldn't ignore the truth anymore. Something was wrong between Damian and me, between Damian and someone.
So when I found a small, unfamiliar cufflink under the edge of the sofa, a silver one with a faint engraving, I didn't tell him. I just held it in my hand, heart pounding, and wondered which of us it really belonged to.