WHAT THE SILENCE DIDN’T SAY

Anais sat in bed, knees drawn up, the letter in her hand wrinkled from being read again and again. “If you’re reading this, I’ve already lost you.”

What kind of man writes something like that, hides it in a wall, and never says a word?

The kind who expects to be forgiven without asking.

The kind who weaponizes silence and calls it strength.

She slipped the letter back into its envelope and stood. Her bare feet sank into the soft rug as she crossed the room and grabbed a cardigan. The hall outside was dark, but she didn’t bother turning on the lights. Let the shadows follow her. They already had.

Cassian was in the sitting room when she found him. Alone. Lights low. A half-empty tumbler of whiskey in one hand, the bottle still on the table beside him. His shirt sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and a single button near the collar was undone—messy, for him.

He didn’t look up when she stepped in.

Just said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

His voice was low. Flat. But not empty. Like there was something moving beneath it that he didn’t want her to hear.

Anais stayed silent for a moment. Watching him.

His jaw was tight. The kind of tightness that held in years of words never said. His eyes were fixed on the glass in his hand, but they weren’t focused. They looked distant. Haunted.

“I found the letter,” she said softly.

That got his attention.

His eyes flicked up—fast, sharp—and in that second, she saw something flicker in them. Not just surprise.

Fear.

He didn’t speak.

She stepped farther into the room, her arms folded around herself—not for comfort, but to stop her hands from shaking.

“You wrote that like you were preparing for war,” she said. “Like you already assumed you’d lose.”

Cassian slowly set the glass down on the table, carefully, as if afraid the sound would shatter something between them.

“I wrote that because I knew it would happen eventually,” he said. His voice was hoarse now. Not from alcohol. From holding back too much.

She tilted her head, watching him. “Because you thought you’d mess up?”

“Because I always do.”

That honesty surprised her.

But it didn’t soften her.

Anais stepped closer, until there was only a few feet between them.

“I need to know what else you’re hiding.”

He looked up at her again—his face pale under the soft glow of the table lamp. The shadows caught under his cheekbones, under his eyes. He looked older than usual. Not physically—just… heavier.

“There’s nothing else like Southbridge,” he said. “No more locked drawers. No more bodies buried under boardrooms.”

“But?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

So she knelt down in front of him—carefully, gracefully—resting on her heels, forcing him to meet her at eye level.

“But,” she said again, voice firmer now.

His lips parted. A breath caught in his throat.

“Anais…” His voice cracked. He blinked, and she noticed for the first time that his eyes were glassy. Not from the drink.

From something else.

“I’ve never let anyone in far enough to ruin me,” he whispered. “Except you.”

That made her heart twist.

Not in love.

In pain.

Because it wasn’t a compliment. It was a confession.

He didn’t fall in love. He surrendered to it like it was a threat.

“You didn’t ruin me,” she said. “You just made it impossible to stay.”

He exhaled slowly, hands resting on his knees, fingers twitching slightly like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m trying to be the man you think I could be,” he said. “But I don’t think I know how to do that without breaking something.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

Then stood.

“You don’t get to break everything around you just because no one taught you how to hold it,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but the words struck like steel.

He looked down at the floor.

The silence that settled between them this time wasn’t peaceful. It was a question neither of them knew how to answer.

Later that morning, Anais stood by the window of the office lounge, watching the skyline melt into morning. She didn’t remember falling asleep—just waking up with the weight of Cassian’s words still wrapped around her ribs like wire.

She had meant what she said.

And yet… something about the way he looked at her last night—like she was the last safe place he knew—kept replaying in her mind.

Irene knocked lightly on the glass.

“You have a guest,” she said.

Anais turned. “Now?”

Irene gave her a subtle nod. “She says she’s not leaving.”

The woman waiting in the lobby looked familiar—Anais just couldn’t place her. Not until she smiled.

It was a bitter smile. Cold.

“You’re Anais Vale,” the woman said. “You look… softer than I expected.”

Anais straightened her shoulders. “And you are?”

The woman reached into her bag, pulled out a glossy photo, and placed it on the table between them.

It was Lina.

Older. Smiling. Holding a trophy on a school field.

“I’m her mother,” the woman said.

Anais froze.

The woman sat back, folding her arms. Her expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not cruel.

Just… tired.

“I don’t want money,” she said. “I’m not here to stir up a scandal. I just want to be clear about something.”

Anais didn’t move. She felt her pulse in her throat.

“He kept her out of your life because I asked him to,” the woman said. “He respected that. He’s many things—but he respected that.”

Anais finally spoke. “Why come to me now?”

The woman smiled again, but there was no kindness in it.

“Because someone’s leaking your business. And I have a hunch it’s not me.”

She slid a paper across the table—an anonymous email printout. Same phrasing. Same font.

Ask him about Southbridge.

He’s not done lying.

Anais stared.

The woman leaned forward.

“Whatever you think you know—someone is making sure you find it. And I don’t think it’s by accident.”

That night, Anais didn’t confront Cassian.

She watched him.

Closely.

She watched the way he rubbed his temples when he thought no one was looking. The way his shoulders hunched just slightly when he walked past the painting she now knew hid the notebook. The way his eyes kept flicking toward his phone like he was expecting a storm he couldn’t see.

She noticed it all.

And then, quietly, she opened her laptop.

She created a new folder. Password protected.

She began collecting everything she knew.

Emails. Dates. Copies of the NDA. Photos of the drawer. Screenshots of texts. Scans of the letter.

Not because she was ready to expose him.

But because for the first time… she realized she might need to protect herself.