Chapter 4

Laurel’s POV

I managed to snap the lid back onto the black box with a sharp clack, sliding it behind the fruit bowl a mere millisecond before Lilibeth rounded the kitchen corner. My face was burning so hot I was certain it was glowing pink.

"I'm seventeen," Lilibeth continued, her school blazer slung over one shoulder, her uniform shirt missing its top button in true teenage rebellion. She reached past me to grab a green apple from the bowl, completely missing the contraband hiding right behind it.

"You and Dad treat me like I'm still in middle school. Go get a drink with Auntie Amanda. Please! I actually want the penthouse to myself for once."

Amanda didn't miss a beat. The wicked smirk vanished, replaced instantly by her bright, doting godmother smile. "See? The child has spoken, Laurel, and honestly, look at her… she’s practically a grown woman." Amanda reached out, pinching Lilibeth’s chin playfully. "Though if I catch you unbuttoning that blouse any further down the street, Lili, I will personally revoke your access to my archive closet."

Lilibeth chuckled, her sharp, guarded demeanor melting slightly. Despite her teenage armor, she adored Amanda.

Amanda didn't represent the stifling, silent grief

that filled our home, she represented life, glamour, and unbothered freedom.

"I'm just trying to survive the dress code, Auntie," Lilibeth said, taking a loud bite of the apple.

She leaned against the counter, her eyes shifting between Amanda and me, the warmth in her expression faded just a fraction, replaced by that heavy, hyper-observant look I had grown to dread.

"Besides, you should go out, Mom, you've been... I don't know. Weird lately, both you and Dad."

My heart did a dangerous stutter step. I forced my hands to remain perfectly still on the marble countertop. "Weird? Sweetheart, we're just normal. Your dad is dealing with a massive logistics acquisition in Chicago, and my seminar enrollment is double what it was last semester, we’re just stressed."

"Stressed people sleep in the same bed," Lilibeth muttered around her apple.

The kitchen went entirely silent.

Amanda stopped her theatrical searching of my pantry, a box of artisanal cheese crackers frozen in her hand. For all her sassy banter, she knew the exact boundaries of the minefield Lilibeth was walking through.

"Lili, honey," Amanda stepped in smoothly, her tone casual but firm. "Your dad handles billions of dollars, and your mom handles the minds of future generations, when people are operating at that level, sometimes one of them snores, or one of them needs to read at three in the morning without a light waking the other up. It’s called an adult arrangement."

She ripped open the box of crackers, immediately popping two into her mouth. "Now, stop psychoanalyzing your parents and let’s make some proper toast, I’m starving, and these crackers are just the opening act."

Lilibeth shrugged, though the tension in her small shoulders didn't quite dissipate. "Whatever, I just hate seeing you look so sad all the time, Mom."

The raw honesty of her words cut deeper than any accusation Leonard could throw at me. I walked over to her, wrapping my arms around her narrow shoulders, pulling her frame against mine.

I kissed the top of her head, inhaling the familiar, clean scent of her shampoo.

"I am not sad, Lilibeth," I lied, my voice steady, anchoring the illusion for her sake. "I am tired, and I am stressed, but I am so proud of you, and I promise you, everything is under control."

"Fine," she murmured into my shoulder, finally wrapping her arms around my waist for a brief, reassuring squeeze.

"Right! Enough of the heavy emotions before noon," Amanda announced, clapping her hands together, a stray crumb falling onto her immaculate silk blouse, she didn't care, she was already busy inserting sourdough bread into the toaster. "Lili, grab the butter, Laurel, leave that box right where it is, we’re finalizing our evening plans over carbs."

As the kitchen filled with the warm, comforting scent of toasted bread, the domestic rhythm took over. We laughed at Amanda’s stories about her nightmare clients, and for a few minutes, we looked like a normal family.

I watched my daughter laugh, watched my best friend comfortably munching on snacks, and I let myself believe the lie.

I let myself hope that maybe the silence in my life was just a phase, that maybe Leonard would return from Chicago with a softened heart.

….

The auditorium of Hudson River University was a theater, and in that moment I was its master director.

"Emotional resilience is not the absence of vulnerability," I spoke into the clip-on microphone, my voice echoing across the three hundred students filling the tiered seats. At five-foot-eleven, standing at the polished mahogany podium in a sleek, charcoal-gray pencil skirt and a cream silk blouse, courtesy of Amanda’s aggressive morning intervention, I looked like a woman who had mastered every storm. "Resilience is the psychological capacity to experience profound structural fracture, yet maintain operational excellence."

From the front row down to the middle tiers, pens flew across notebooks. I could feel their admiration, a tangible, warm energy that always filled my lecture halls. To these twenty-year-olds, Professor Leonard was an icon of modern womanhood, brilliant, impeccably styled, unshakeable.

Even among the faculty, the sentiment was potent, though wrapped in a darker fabric. Through the glass partition at the back of the hall, I caught the brief silhouette of Dr. Aris from the sociology department, her arms crossed before she turned away.

My colleagues envied me. They envied my tenure, my flawless student evaluations, and the prestigious, wealthy husband who occasionally appeared on my arm at presidential galas.

They envied the perfect life they thought I had constructed.

They had no idea that inside the immaculate silk blouse, I was dying.

I kept my focus entirely on the material, my eyes tracking the projector screen and the generic sea of faces. For the first time in five hundred and forty-seven days, my mind wasn't entirely trapped in the hospital room or the cold expanse of the penthouse.

The rhythmic flow of the lecture became a temporary sanctuary, a place where my voice mattered, even if my body felt hollowed out by fire.

"Read chapters four through six for Thursday. Class dismissed."

The academic armor stayed intact as the students gathered their belongings, a symphony of rustling paper and shuffling feet filling the room. I busied myself with organizing my notes into my briefcase, checking the time.

It was 5:15 p.m.

The moment the last student slid through the heavy wooden doors, a sharp, familiar tap echoed against the doorframe.

"Well, look at you," Amanda’s sassy, lively voice cut through the empty lecture hall. She was leaning against the frame, already wearing a jaw-dropping black velvet cocktail dress with an oversized blazer slung over her shoulders. She looked at me with a wicked, knowing smirk.

"Professor Leonard, you absolute goddess, that pencil skirt is doing exactly what I intended it to do, now, pack up your papers, the car is downstairs, and we have a very important date with a bottle of dirty martinis, so we are using a rider, don’t bother about your car it’s taking care of."

I looked at her unbeliveably. “You are welcome.” she winked.

I let out a soft laugh, the rigid academic posture finally dropping from my shoulders as I zipped my briefcase. "I'm coming, Amanda. Give me a second."

"No seconds allowed, You survived the first lecture of the semester, your corporate overlord is currently in Chicago, and Lilibeth is safely tucked away at her study group," Amanda said, walking into the space and practically snatching my coat off the chair.

She linked her arm tightly through mine, her familiar, expensive perfume enveloping me. "Tonight, Laurel, you are not a professor, and you are not a grieving wife, tonight, you are just a woman getting a drink with her best friend, and whatever happens this night, remain in this night."

That was coning i thougt, “I am married remember.” I flashed my ring finger to her face.

“Thanks for the reminder.”

As she dragged me down the faculty hallway toward the elevators, I let out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for eighteen months.