Chapter 7

Laurel’s POV

The scalding water eventually ran lukewarm, forcing me out of the sanctuary of the stall. I dried off mechanically, pulling a fresh, ice-blue silk nightgown over my damp skin. The fabric was light, a cruel mockery of the heavy warmth I actually craved.

When I stepped back into the dark bedroom, the air-conditioned chill of the penthouse hit me immediately.

I climbed into the massive, king-sized bed, sliding beneath the heavy duvet. Even though I was five-foot-eleven, tonight I felt microscopic, swallowed whole by the vast expanse of Egyptian cotton. I rolled onto my side, my back automatically turning to the empty space where Leonard was supposed to be sleeping.

The frantic energy of the alcohol had finally begun to bottom out, leaving behind a hollow, exhausting sobriety. My muscles ached from the intensity of the release, but my mind was hyper-vigilant, spinning back to the toxic, elegant poison Amanda had fed me at the lounge.

‘For all you know, he’s out there right now, sexing some twenty-two-year-old model…’

My chest tightened.

With a trembling hand, I reached out to the nightstand and picked up my phone, the bright blue glare of the screen slashing through the darkness of the room, eyes strained against the light as I unlocked it, my thumb moving with a desperate, pathetic instinct straight to my messaging app.

I was looking for a lifeline.

A single notification.

A missed call.

A generic, clinical text message.

Anything.

There was nothing.

I opened his contact thread, my last two messages sat there, gray and unanswered, staring back at me like a mockery.

I hope your flight was smooth, I had written at 8:00 p.m the day he left and more than 24 hours later, no reply.

Call me when you get to the hotel, after your meeting, I had sent an hour later, right before Amanda dragged me onto the dance floor.

He hadn't replied, he hadn't even given me the courtesy of a typing bubble, I scrolled up, looking at my call history.

Two outgoing calls to his personal line, both logged as missed, he hadn't checked to see if his daughter was safe, or if his wife had survived the day.

A heavy, suffocating weight settled right onto my lungs.

The silence from his phone was louder than his verbal accusations, it was a digital manifestation of the wall he had built between us.

I stared at the blank screen until it timed out, plunging the room back into pitch darkness.

Amanda’s words echoed in the quiet, pairing horribly with the phantom scent of leather and sandalwood on the pillow next to me, I didn't want to believe he was with someone else.

Leonard was a man of cold, unyielding principles, his distance had always felt like punishment, not infidelity.

But as I lay there in the dark, starving and entirely alone, a terrifying realization began to take root.

If he wasn't seeking warmth elsewhere, then his silence meant something much worse, it meant he truly preferred the freezing void of our ruined marriage over me.

I pulled the duvet tightly up to my chin, closing my eyes against the burning tears. Almost two years and the ice was only getting thicker.

I stared at the black screen until it timed out, plunging the room back into pitch darkness. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate to block out

Amanda’s toxic voice, desperate to replace the image of a cold, indifferent stranger in Chicago with the man I had actually married.

Before the grief had hollowed us out, there had been light in this room.

A vague, warm memory drifted through the static of my exhaustion, pulling me back to our ten-year anniversary. It was the only thing that could still bring a fragile, aching smile to my lips in the dark, we had been on a private terrace in Florence, the Italian summer air wrapping around us like silk.

Leonard hadn't been wearing his armor that night. He had looked at me with eyes that were soft, heavy with a quiet adoration that made my five-foot-eleven frame feel delicate, cherished, and entirely seen.

Later that evening, he had slipped a small velvet box into my hands. Inside wasn't a standard diamond, but an exquisitely crafted, intricate sculpture of a swan, fashioned entirely out of delicate, interwoven platinum wire.

I remember the low, rich vibration of his voice as he leaned into my neck, his lips brushing my skin.

He had an entire philosophy about it.

“Swans mate for life, Laurel,” he had whispered, his large hands anchoring my waist. “They are the only creatures that understand true fidelity, even

if one is taken, the other carries the bond in their blood until they die. This wire... it’s woven together so tightly that it can’t be unraveled without breaking the whole structure. That’s us.”

We had made love that night with a slow, consuming reverence that left me weeping from the absolute depth of our connection. He had loved every single inch of my body, he had protected me.

The memory evaporated, leaving the bitter taste of reality on my tongue.

I opened my eyes to the empty, freezing master bedroom, the platinum wire was somewhere in the room.

I pulled the duvet tightly up to my chin, closing my eyes against the burning tears as the phantom warmth of Florence slipped through my fingers.

….

The next morning, the persistent, golden light of dawn began to bleed through the sheer curtains of the master suite, finding me already awake.

The heavy fog of the martinis had dissipated, leaving behind a dull, hollow clarity, I didn't wait for the penthouse to wake up.

I needed to move, to occupy my mind before the silence of the apartment could choke me.

I pulled on a soft charcoal robe and slipped quietly into my home study.

The study was my absolute sanctuary lately, my favourite place in the penthouse. It was a beautiful, sunlit room lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, stacks of academic journals, and a heavy, polished desk that overlooked the city skyline.

For the last eighteen months, when my chest felt too tight to breathe, I would bury myself in work.

Analyzing human behavior, structuring curriculum, and reading research papers was the only place where logic still applied, in this room, there were no broken promises or empty nurseries.

There were only facts and solutions.

Since I wasn't expected on campus today, I spread out the lecture notes for my upcoming advanced seminar on interpersonal trauma, diving deeply into the preparation. I let the clinical terms consume me, writing precise annotations in the margins, letting the academic routine anchor my erratic thoughts.

By 7:30 a.m., the sun was fully up, casting long, bright squares across the hardwood floor.

I stared down at my phone resting beside my laptop. The silence from Leonard was a physical ache. Taking a steadying breath, I picked it up and dialed his number, I expected the usual clinical ring that would eventually bleed into voicemail.

One ring. Two rings. Three.

Then, the line clicked open.

"Laurel."

The rich, familiar baritone was filtered through the static of a speakerphone, my heart leaped into my throat, a pathetic wave of relief washing over me just hearing his voice.

"Leonard," I said, keeping my tone as even and professional as possible. "Good morning, I tried calling you last night."

"I saw the notifications," he replied smoothly, the distant clinking of porcelain and the rustle of papers in the background telling me he was already at a breakfast meeting or in a hotel suite working.

"Things have been exceptionally chaotic with the logistics acquisition here, the board meeting ran into the late hours, and I had to review the revised compliance frameworks before dawn, I haven't had a spare moment."

The excuse was pristine. Transactional. Entirely logical.

Yet, Amanda’s venomous warnings from the night before flashed briefly behind my eyes before I firmly shoved them away. "I understand, I just wanted to make sure you arrived safely. Lilibeth was asking about you."

"I am fine, Ensure Lilibeth stays focused on her prep courses this week. I don't want her…"

The heavy oak door of the study swung open softly.

Lilibeth stood in the doorway, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail, holding a half-empty mug of tea, she looked at me, then at the phone in my hand, her sharp eyes immediately registering the tense, quiet posture I always held when speaking to her father.

"Is that Dad?" she asked quietly.

I offered her a warm, reassuring smile, stepping out of my defensive shell. "Yes, sweetheart, he just picked up." I held the phone out toward her, tilting my head. "Here, tell him morning yourself."

Lilibeth hesitated for a fraction of a second, then walked over and took the device from my hand, her gaze lingering on my face as if searching for any remnants of the ‘nightmare’ from the night before.

"Hey, Dad," Lilibeth spoke into the phone, her voice shifting into that slightly guarded, formal tone she reserved specifically for him. She leaned against the edge of my desk, her fingers tracing the smooth mahogany. "Yeah, I'm up, I'm just reviewing the syllabus."

I stepped back, giving her space, but I couldn't entirely tune out the muted, clinical baritone filtering through the receiver.

With Lilbeth, Leonard is soft, only when he is with her that I see that version of him, that I used to bring out without trying, but not anymore.

I watched Lilibeth's face, the subtle tightening of her jaw, the way her shoulders squared beneath her cotton pajamas.

She was only seventeen, but she was already learning how to navigate his expectations like a corporate board member.

"Okay. Here's Mom," she said abruptly, cutting the conversation short before he could launch into another academic lecture. She held the phone out to me, her thumb already hovering near the speaker grill.

"Thank you, sweetheart," I murmured, taking the device back.

Lilibeth didn't leave the room right away.

She picked up her tea mug, taking a slow sip while keeping her eyes locked onto me, openly monitoring how I handled her father.

"Leonard?" I said, pressing the phone back to my ear.

"I have to step into the lobby, the car for the midday plenary is waiting," his voice came through, crisp and entirely unbothered by the domestic handoff.

"I will likely be unreachable until late evening."

"Understood," I said, the familiar, icy knot tightening in my stomach. "Good luck with the acquisition."

"Goodbye, Laurel."

The line went dead with a soft, definitive click.

I lowered the phone slowly, staring at the black screen.

The brief spark of validation from hearing his voice had already curdled into a dull, familiar ache.

He hadn't asked how my first lecture went. He hadn't asked if I was sleeping better. He had simply managed the interaction with his usual clinical efficiency.

"He's not coming home early, is he?" Lilibeth’s quiet voice broke the silence of the study.

I looked up, forcing the pristine Professor Leonard mask back onto my face, smoothing over the cracks for her sake. "No, Lili, the Chicago deal is very complex. But he’s just doing his job."

Lilibeth let out a dry, humorless laugh, turning toward the door. "Yeah. Recently, he's always doing his job, I'm going to go get ready."

As the door closed behind her, the absolute silence of the penthouse rushed back in, heavy and absolute. I sank back into my desk chair, my hands trembling slightly against the cool wood, I looked at the stacks of lecture notes on emotional resilience spread out before me, and for the first time, the words felt completely useless.

I could analyze human behavior all I wanted, but as I sat alone in the morning light, I had absolutely no idea how to survive the winter inside my own home.