ELENA POV It’s strange how quiet the mansion feels now. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but something sharp and cold, like a house waiting for a storm that never comes. We barely speak. When we do, it’s about nothing: dinner, schedules, meetings. The important words sit between us, heavy and silent. At night, I hear him on the other side of the bed, so close I could reach out and touch him. But I don’t and he doesn’t, either. It’s worse than fighting. Worse than yelling. It feels like drowning in air. One morning, I walk into the dining room to see him laughing quietly at something Sophia says. The sound freezes me in the doorway. God, it’s stupid how something so small can stab straight through my chest. I sit down, trying to look bored, but my heart hammers. He barely glances at me, nods, and goes back to his coffee. Later that afternoon, I see him again, outside, by the cars, talking to a woman in a tight black dress. Her laugh is too loud. Her hand lingers on hi
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