Chapter 11: The Day Hope Learned to Hold Its Breath
Morning arrived without mercy.
The sun crept through the curtains like it had every right to be there, warm and indifferent to the chaos inside my chest. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the quiet house, half-expecting to hear Lucien's footsteps, his calm voice reminding me to eat breakfast.
Nothing came.
The note still sat on the counter where I'd left it, folded carefully like it might explode if handled too roughly. I need time to think. The words echoed in my head, looping endlessly.
Time was a luxury I didn't have.
I went to school on autopilot, smiling when spoken to, nodding when teachers called my name. My body moved, but my mind stayed behind, stuck in that living room where everything fragile had been left exposed.
By midday, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Meet me after school. Old library café. Please.
I didn't need a name. My heart already knew.
The café was nearly empty when I arrived, the air thick with the scent of coffee and dusted pages. Lucien sat at a corner table, jacket draped over the chair beside him, hair slightly disheveled like he'd run his hands through it too many times.
He looked tired.
That hurt more than anger would have.
"You came," he said softly.
"I needed answers," I replied, taking the seat across from him.
He nodded. "That's fair."
Silence settled between us, heavier than the one we'd left behind at home.
"I spoke to my family this morning," Lucien said finally.
My fingers tightened around my cup. "And?"
"They gave me an ultimatum."
I didn't need him to explain what that meant.
"If I continue treating this marriage as more than a contract," he continued, "they'll cut financial support to several humanitarian projects I'm funding."
My breath caught. "That's cruel."
"They know where to hit," he said bitterly.
"And what did you say?" I asked.
Lucien met my eyes. "I asked for time."
The word stung.
"I'm not asking you to choose me," I said quickly, panic rising. "I know what's at stake."
"That's the problem," he replied. "You always understand too much."
I looked down. "Understanding doesn't make it hurt less."
He reached across the table, then hesitated, pulling his hand back. "I don't regret caring about you."
"Neither do I," I admitted.
The confession hung between us, fragile and dangerous.
"I keep thinking," Lucien said quietly, "that if I had been colder from the start, none of this would have happened."
I shook my head. "Then it wouldn't have been real."
His jaw tightened.
"I don't want to be someone who uses people," he said. "Even for survival."
"And I don't want to be someone who holds you back," I replied.
We both laughed softly at the irony. Two people trying to let go by pulling tighter.
Outside, rain began to fall, tapping gently against the windows.
"Whatever happens," Lucien said, voice low, "I need you to know something."
I looked up.
"You changed me," he continued. "You reminded me that power without humanity is empty."
Tears blurred my vision. "You taught me that love isn't always loud. Sometimes it's just… staying."
We sat there until the rain slowed, neither of us willing to stand first.
When we finally did, Lucien walked me to the door.
"This isn't goodbye," he said.
"I hope not," I whispered.
He hesitated, then placed his coat over my shoulders, the familiar weight making my chest ache.
"Take care of yourself," he said softly.
"You too."
As I watched him walk away into the rain, I realized something painful and true.
Hope hadn't disappeared.
It had just learned how to hold its breath.
And I didn't know how long it could survive that way.