Semua Bab Left At The Altar: Bab 21 - Bab 29

I don’t answer him.Not because I don’t have one — but because whatever I say will fracture something that can’t be put back together.The noise of the street rushes in where my voice should be. Laughter spills from the restaurant behind us. A car horn blares. Life continues, careless and cruel.Noah watches my face like he’s waiting for a verdict.I finally step back, breaking the invisible line between us. “I need time.”Something flickers in his eyes — disappointment, relief, restraint. All of it wrapped tight.“Time is fair,” he says after a moment. “But don’t confuse it with distance.”“I’m not,” I reply quietly. “I’m asking not to be cornered.”He nods once. “Then let’s go home.”The word lands heavier than it should.The elevator ride back up is silent. Not tense — worse. Careful. Like we’re both aware that one wrong word could detonate everything we’ve been avoiding.When the doors open to the penthouse floor, I hesitate.“This doesn’t mean yes,” I say, not looking at him.“I

I wake to the sound of voices.Low. Urgent. Male.For a split second, panic grips me — until I remember where I am. The weight of the duvet. The faint scent of Noah’s cologne, clean and understated. The soft glow of the city leaking through the curtains.Noah isn’t beside me.I sit up slowly, heart already racing, and listen.“…no, I don’t want him picked up yet,” Noah says somewhere beyond the bedroom. “I want to know who’s helping him.”A pause.“Yes. I’m sure. He didn’t get this far alone.”I swing my legs over the side of the bed, padding silently toward the door. The carpet absorbs my steps. I don’t mean to eavesdrop — but every instinct I have is sharpened, alert.“I don’t care what his lawyer threatens,” Noah continues, voice flat and lethal. “If he crosses the perimeter again, I’ll handle it personally.”That stops me cold.I step into the hallway just as Noah turns, phone still in his hand. His gaze snaps to me instantly.“You should be sleeping,” he says.“I was,” I reply. “

The penthouse is too quiet.Not the comfortable kind of quiet — the kind that presses against your ears, makes you aware of every breath, every shift of weight, every unspoken thing hanging between two people who are pretending they don’t feel anything at all.I stand by the window, arms folded, watching the city lights blur together below. From this height, everything looks smaller. Manageable. As if problems shrink when you’re far enough away.Behind me, I hear Noah move.Not loud. He never is. Just the soft sound of a glass being set down, footsteps crossing marble. I don’t turn around, but my spine straightens anyway, like my body reacts before my mind does.“You didn’t eat,” he says.I shrug. “I wasn’t hungry.”“That’s a lie.”A sigh slips out of me. “You always this observant, or is that just with me?”There’s a pause. Long enough that I almost turn around.Then, quietly: “Just with you.”That does it.I turn, finally facing him. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves

The boardroom smells like polished wood and quiet ambition.I take my seat at the head of the table, spine straight, expression calm, even as my pulse ticks louder with every second. Twelve faces look back at me — partners, senior counsel, men and women who watched me grow up running through these halls and now assess me like a variable they’re not sure they trust.“Let’s begin,” I say, clicking my tablet awake.The call starts predictably enough — quarterly numbers, client retention, litigation wins. I move through it with precision, answering questions before they’re fully formed, anticipating objections, shutting down doubt with facts. This is the part I’m good at. This is the armor.Then one of them clears his throat.“Aurora,” Mr. Langford says, folding his hands. “We’d be remiss not to address the… optics.”There it is.I don’t blink. “Be specific.”He hesitates, then continues. “Given the very public disruption of your wedding and the subsequent media attention, some of our cli

Morning arrives quietly.Not with alarms or urgency, but with pale light slipping through the glass walls of the penthouse and the low hum of the city waking below. I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening.No footsteps rushing. No voices. Just calm.It takes me a second to realize how strange that is.For years, mornings meant tension — emails already piling up, cases waiting, expectations pressing down before I’d even opened my eyes. But here, in Noah’s penthouse, the quiet feels intentional. Curated. Like he designed even the silence.I sit up slowly, pulling the sheet around me. I didn’t sleep in his bed. That boundary still exists — deliberate, respected. But the guest room no longer feels like a temporary shelter. It feels… lived in.My phone lights up on the nightstand.Noah: You awake?I smile before I can stop myself.Me: Unfortunately, yes.A moment passes.Noah: Coffee’s ready. No pressure.I swing my legs out of bed.He’s already dressed when I enter the