Semua Bab Love Didn’t Save Us. It Just Made the Fall Hurt More : Bab 31 - Bab 40

The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, its sound faint but sharp in the silence. Elijah slipped out of bed with practiced quiet, careful not to disturb the rhythm of Gabe’s breathing. The apartment was dark except for the faint glow spilling under the office door. He moved barefoot, every step slow, deliberate, like he was walking into enemy territory instead of across the polished floorboards of Gabe’s home. His heart thudded in his chest. Not from fear of being caught though that risk was real but from the truth he was afraid to find. The office smelled like coffee gone cold and old leather. Stacks of books lined one wall, their spines neat and ordered. On the desk sat framed photographs frozen smiles of Gabe with his old colleagues, snapshots from a life before Elijah had reentered it. And there, half-closed, glowing faintly in the dark, was Gabe’s old laptop. Unlocked. Elijah hesitated only for a moment before pulling the screen open. The glow lit his face, pale in the

The apartment was quiet when Elijah came in, too quiet for the storm inside his chest. He found Gabe in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, rinsing dishes under the steady rush of water. He was humming low, some old tune Elijah half-recognized but couldn’t place. Like nothing had changed. Like Elijah’s world hadn’t cracked wide open. “Hey,” Gabe said without looking up. “You eat?” Elijah didn’t answer. He stood there in the doorway, frozen. Watching him. Watching the way Gabe’s shoulders moved when he scrubbed the plate, the way his bare feet shifted against the tile. Ordinary. Familiar. Safe. Or at least, that’s what it used to mean. Now every gesture felt sharpened, every detail a weapon. “Gabe.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Gabe turned. And whatever smile he’d been carrying slipped right off his face. Something in Elijah’s tone had warned him. “What is it?” Elijah lifted the crumpled printout in his hand. The paper shook, though his grip was iron. “I know.”

The sun was already high when Elijah came back. Light poured across the penthouse like it was trying too hard bright, almost cruel, as if the day itself didn’t care that the night before had ripped something open between them. Gabe hadn’t moved. He was still in the same chair, same clothes, same hollow stillness. His eyes were red, not from sleep but from the lack of it. He looked like a man who had been sitting in silence so long that even his heartbeat had slowed to match the ticking of the clock on the wall. When the door clicked open, his head lifted. He didn’t speak. He didn’t rush forward. He just looked at Elijah like a prisoner waiting to hear if the verdict was life or death. Elijah closed the door behind him with a quiet finality. His chest rose and fell, calm on the outside, storming on the inside. In his hand was the black folder. The folder Gabe had hidden. The one that carried Arthur Vale’s handwriting, his threat, his promise. Gabe’s eyes dropped to it immed

Gabe opened the door before Elijah could even knock. Like he had been waiting on the other side. Like he somehow knew Elijah would come back. Neither of them spoke at first. The weight of everything unsaid hung in the air, pressing heavy against Elijah’s chest. He walked past Gabe without a word, his steps steady, his pulse anything but, and placed the half-burned document on the table between them. Gabe froze. His eyes locked on the paper, his face draining of color. For a moment he didn’t breathe. “She kept it,” he whispered finally, his voice thin. “I didn’t think she actually…” Elijah’s gaze sharpened. “You knew about it?” Gabe nodded slowly, almost reluctantly, like the admission itself was dangerous. “I didn’t know it was official. I thought it was just… something she said to scare your father.” Elijah lowered himself into the chair opposite him, the old wood creaking under his weight. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Elijah finally let the question

The lawyer’s office smelled like old paper and lemon oil, the kind of scent that clung to polished wood and forgotten secrets. The blinds were half-closed, slicing the room into strips of light and shadow. The walls were lined with shelves of heavy books, their spines cracked with years of use. Behind the desk sat Mr. Holloway. His hair was white now, thinning at the crown, his shoulders stooped from years of carrying other people’s burdens. He had known Elijah’s mother for over twenty-five years. He didn’t rise when Elijah walked in. He only folded his hands on the desk and said quietly, “I wondered when you’d come.” Elijah said nothing. He reached into his coat, pulled out the half-burned copy of the will he’d found in his mother’s study, and dropped it on the desk between them. The charred edges curled slightly on the polished wood. “I need to know,” Elijah said, his voice tight, “if this is real.” Mr. Holloway looked down at the paper, his expression unreadable. For a long m