Chapter Five - The Weight of Quiet

The silence followed Jordan into her dreams.

Not the gentle kind that came with sleep, but the heavy, pressing quiet that wrapped around her thoughts and refused to let go. When she woke, it was with the sense that something had been left unfinished, and words unsaid, choices delayed too long.

Jay was already gone.

Again.

Jordan lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling as pale morning light traced familiar shadows across the room. She counted her breaths. In. Out. Steady. Controlled. It was easier to begin the day when she reminded herself not to expect anything different.

She rose, dressed, moved through the apartment as though it were a museum exhibit rather than a home. Nothing disturbed. Nothing personal. The coffee maker hummed; the toaster popped. She left the mug untouched on the counter when she realized she wasn’t thirsty.

At the arts center, the routine unfolded exactly as it always did.

She filed paperwork, answered emails, listened to conversations that didn’t require her input. She smiled when spoken to. Laughed softly at appropriate moments. Her reflection in the glass doors looked composed, capable, and no sign of the weight settling behind her ribs.

“Jordan,” the director called out, waving her over. “We’re short on volunteers for the fundraiser next month. Any chance you’d want to help coordinate?”

The old excitement flickered, brief and hopeful.

“I could,” Jordan said carefully. “What would it involve?”

The director’s smile widened. “Planning, organizing, and a lot of outreach. It’s a bit of work.”

Jordan hesitated, Jay’s voice already echoing in her head. A lot of work. As though effort were something she needed permission to spend.

“I’ll check my schedule,” she said instead.

The director nodded, unfazed. “Let me know.”

Jordan returned to her desk, the flicker dimming. She hated how quickly she’d deferred, how instinctively she’d placed her life on hold for a man who rarely noticed when she was present.

At lunch, she sat alone in the small park across the street, watching leaves skitter across the pavement in the breeze. Her phone rested in her lap, screen dark.

She didn’t text Calloway.

Not because she didn’t want to, but because wanting had begun to feel dangerous.

That afternoon, Jay called.

“Are you home?” he asked, voice clipped.

“No. I’m still out.”

“I need you back by six.”

Jordan blinked. “Why?”

“I have colleagues coming over.”

She looked at her watch. It was already nearly five. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

A familiar irritation rose. “Jay, I had plans.”

He paused. “With who?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is if it interferes with mine.”

Her jaw tightened. “What do you need me to do?”

There it was, and the automatic capitulation.

“Just be present,” he said. “You know how these things go.”

She did. She knew exactly how they went.

By six, the apartment had transformed. Wine glasses polished. Candles lit. Hors d’oeuvres arranged with careful symmetry. Jordan moved through the space like a stagehand, adjusting details no one would notice but her.

The guests arrived in a flurry of tailored suits and practiced smiles. Jay greeted them warmly, all charm and confidence. Jordan hovered at his side, introduced as his wife, her name an accessory to his success.

“Jay’s told us so much about you,” one woman said.

Jordan smiled. She doubted it.

As the evening progressed, conversation drifted inevitably toward work. Jordan listened as Jay spoke about cases in vague, sanitized terms. Strategic maneuvering. High-stakes negotiations. Protecting interests.

“And the exposure?” a man asked.

Jay’s smile didn’t falter. “Managed.”

Jordan watched the exchange closely. There was something in Jay’s tone, an undercurrent of satisfaction that unsettled her. As though the power he wielded extended far beyond the courtroom.

She refilled glasses, collected empty plates, and faded into the background.

At one point, she caught Jay watching her. His gaze was assessing, proprietary. She straightened instinctively, smoothing her dress.

Later, as the guests lingered near the door, laughter echoing, Jordan overheard a fragment of conversation that made her pause.

“ Would’ve ruined them if it got out,” someone said.

Jay laughed softly. “That’s why it didn’t.”

The words slid under her skin.

After the door finally closed behind the last guest, the apartment felt different. Charged. Heavy.

Jay loosened his tie and poured himself another drink. “You did well tonight.”

“Thank you,” Jordan said.

“You always do.”

It sounded like praise. It felt like an expectation.

She watched him take a sip, then set the glass down with deliberate care. “Jordan,” he said, voice lowering, “I need you to understand something.”

She met his gaze. “What?”

“My work requires discretion. Loyalty. There are things you’ll hear, things you won’t understand. It’s important that you don’t ask questions that could complicate matters.”

Her stomach tightened. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“I know.” He stepped closer. “And I appreciate that.”

She nodded, the unspoken message clear.

Later that night, lying in bed, Jordan replayed the evening in her mind. The way Jay commanded attention. The ease with which people deferred to him. The quiet pride in his voice when he spoke about controlling outcomes.

She wondered how far that control extended.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Calloway:

You crossed my mind tonight. Hope you’re okay.

Her throat tightened.

She typed a reply, erased it, then typed again.

Jordan:

Just tired.

The response came quickly.

Calloway:

That kind of tiredness usually means something’s weighing on you.

She stared at the screen, the truth pressing hard against her ribs.

Jordan:

Some things are easier not to name.

A pause.

Calloway:

Only until they aren’t.

She turned the phone face down, heart pounding. He was right, and that frightened her.

The next morning, she woke with a resolve she didn’t fully understand yet.

At the arts center, she found the director and spoke before doubt could stop her.

“I want to help with the fundraiser,” she said. “I can commit.”

The director beamed. “That’s wonderful.”

Jordan felt a small, unfamiliar thrill.

That evening, she told Jay over dinner.

“I’m coordinating the fundraiser next month,” she said, voice steady.

Jay looked up from his plate. “How involved is it?”

“Very.”

His expression tightened. “You didn’t ask me.”

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

Silence stretched between them.

“This will take time,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And energy.”

“Yes.”

He studied her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Make sure it doesn’t interfere with what matters.”

Jordan met his gaze, heart pounding. “I think it will help me remember what matters.”

Jay didn’t respond.

Later, alone in the spare room, Jordan opened her laptop again.

The blank document stared back at her.

She began to type.

This time, she saved it.

The words came slowly at first, then faster, and the thoughts she’d disciplined herself not to have, questions she’d swallowed, truths she’d buried beneath routine and obligation.

She didn’t know yet where they would lead.

But for the first time in a long while, the quiet didn’t feel like something she had to carry alone.

It felt like something she was finally learning to break.