I didn't sleep.
I lay awake long after the house went quiet, staring at the ceiling as memories pressed in from every direction. The faint scent of Alexander's cologne still lingered on the sheets.
Thirty days.
I repeated it like a prayer and a warning all at once.
When dawn finally came, it arrived softly, pale light filtering through the curtains. I stayed where I was, listening to the house wake up, footsteps from the staff quarters, the distant hum of the coffee machine downstairs.
Instinct told me to get up.
For three years, I had risen before Alexander. I had memorized his preferences without him ever asking; coffee strength, cufflink placement, silence until seven-thirty. Loving him had been an exercise in anticipation.
But this morning, I didn't move.
The bedroom door opened just after six.
"Seraphina?"
His voice sounded off, uncertain, almost cautious.
I turned my head slowly. Alexander stood just inside the doorway, already dressed in a dark suit, his tie perfectly knotted. He looked the same as always: composed, controlled, untouched by the storm he'd left behind the night before.
Except he was looking at me.
Not past me.
Not through me.
At me.
"I thought you'd already be up," he said.
"I thought you'd already be gone," I replied.
Something flickered across his face; annoyance, maybe. Or discomfort. It was hard to tell.
"You didn't come down for breakfast."
"I didn't feel like pretending everything was normal," I said quietly.
He exhaled through his nose and glanced at his watch. "I have a meeting at eight."
I nodded. "Then you should go."
I expected him to turn around, relieved to escape the awkwardness. Instead, he hesitated.
"We agreed," he said. "Thirty days."
"Yes," I said, sitting up slowly, pulling the covers around me more for grounding than modesty. "We did."
He stayed where he was, arms folded now, his gaze lingering in a way that made my skin prickle. The silence stretched between us, unfamiliar and tight.
"What do you want to do today?" he asked finally.
The question caught me off guard.
I laughed softly, the sound thin. "You don't have to ask like that."
"I know," he said. "But I am."
I searched his face for sarcasm and didn't find it. That unsettled me more than indifference ever had.
"I want to go somewhere quiet," I said after a moment. "Somewhere we don't have to perform."
He frowned. "We always perform."
"Then somewhere we can at least pretend we don't."
Another pause.
"Fine," he said. "Clear your schedule."
I blinked. "My schedule?"
His lips twitched. "Old habits."
By the time we arrived at the botanical gardens, the city felt like it belonged to another world. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of earth and flowers. Alexander walked beside me, hands in his pockets, his stride slower than usual.
"You used to love this place," he said.
"I still do," I replied. "I just stopped coming."
"Why?"
I looked at him. "You never noticed when I was gone."
That earned a wince.
We walked in silence for a while, past winding paths and glass conservatories. Eventually, we sat on a bench overlooking a small pond. Ducks drifted lazily across the water, unbothered by anything at all.
"This feels strange," Alexander admitted.
"Which part?"
"All of it," he said. "You. Me. The quiet."
"I've always been quiet," I said. "You just weren't listening."
He didn't argue.
For a moment, we sat like that, two people who shared a history too heavy to name and too fragile to touch. I felt something shift inside me then, something dangerous and unwanted.
Hope.
I stood abruptly. "We should head back."
He looked surprised. "Already?"
"Yes," I said, forcing a small smile. "I don't want to ruin a good moment by staying too long."
He studied me, as if trying to decide what I meant. Then he nodded.
That night, when we returned to the house, Alexander didn't leave for Elena.
I noticed because I listened for his car long after dinner, my heart caught somewhere between relief and dread.
When he finally appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, loosening his cufflinks, he stopped when he saw me sitting on the bed.
"I'll sleep in the guest room," he said automatically.
I didn't know why the words hurt.
"We didn't agree to that," I said.
He hesitated. "I don't want to give you the wrong idea."
I met his gaze. "I already know what the right idea is."
After a long moment, he nodded and crossed the room, stopping at the far edge of the bed. He lay down without touching me, his back turned, a careful distance between us.
The room was dark. The silence thick.
"Seraphina," he said quietly.
"Yes?"
"I don't know how to do this."
Neither did I.
But as I stared into the darkness, listening to his breathing slowly even out, I realized something that made my chest tighten painfully:
For the first time in three years, Alexander was trying.
And I didn't know whether that made leaving easier—or impossible.