The Rhodes Penthouse was dark when Arland finally came home.
It was 2:00 AM. The city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows cast long, skeletal shadows across the living room floor. Isolde was sitting in a wingback chair facing the window, her silhouette rigid.
The digital lock beeped, and the heavy door swung open.
Arland walked in. He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, hanging crookedly around his neck, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing as he kicked off his shoes.
He flipped on the light switch. The sudden brightness was blinding.
He jumped slightly when he saw her. "Isolde? Why are you sitting in the dark?"
He walked toward her, and the scent hit her before he even reached the chair. It was a mix of hospital antiseptic and heavy, cloying gardenia. Emilie's perfume. It was a scent that had haunted Isolde for years, clinging to his coats, his car, his skin.
Arland stopped a few feet away, frowning. He seemed to be bracing himself for a scream, a plate thrown, tears.
"Emilie had a panic attack at the airport," he said. His voice was rough, defensive. "She couldn't breathe. The paparazzi were swarming her. I had to get her out."
Isolde turned her head slowly to look at him. Her eyes were dry. There was no redness, no puffiness. Just a flat, dead calm that made Arland's breath catch. "It doesn't matter," she said, her voice slicing through the room with freezing precision. "If she's that fragile, you should have stayed at the hospital. Don't bring that cloying scent of illness into my space."
Arland froze. He blinked, confused. He had prepared a dozen excuses, a dozen logical reasons why his duty to the Blackburn family came first. He wasn't prepared for this icy dismissal.
"You... you do?" Arland asked, stepping closer. He looked relieved, but also slightly unsettled. "I knew you would. You're always so reasonable, Isolde. That's why I love you. I'll make it up to you. We can reschedule for next week."
He reached out, his hand open as if to rest on her shoulder, but stopped mid-air. He seemed to remember the invisible wall between them, the one he had never dared to cross, and let his hand fall back to his side.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. It wasn't a normal notification sound; it was a specific, urgent pattern.
Arland pulled his hand back instantly. He checked the screen, and his face tightened. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused alertness.
"I have to go back," he said, already turning away. "She's asking for me. She doesn't know where the medication is."
Isolde looked at his back. He was already moving toward the door, his body language tense, his priority clear.
"Go," Isolde said, looking at him as if he were a complete stranger. "Don't let me keep you from your patient."
Arland hesitated at the door. He looked back at her, a flicker of guilt crossing his handsome face. "I'll be back by morning. We'll have breakfast. Pancakes. Your favorite."
"Okay," she lied.
He nodded, satisfied, and walked out. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the empty apartment.
Isolde remained in the chair. She didn't cry. She simply looked at the space where he had been standing, realizing that the man she loved didn't exist. He was a figment of her imagination, a projection she had kept alive for seven years.
The man who had just left was a stranger. And she owed strangers nothing.
The doorbell rang at exactly 9:00 AM the next morning.
Isolde was already dressed. She was wearing a high-necked black blouse and trousers, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. She looked less like a fiancée and more like a widow.
She opened the door. Simon Vance, Arland's personal assistant, stood in the hallway. He looked impeccable in his grey suit, but his eyes betrayed him. He wouldn't meet her gaze.
"Good morning, Miss Gibson," Simon said, his voice practiced and polite. He held out a rectangular velvet box. "Mr. Rhodes sends his deepest apologies. He got tied up at the hospital."
Isolde looked at the box. She knew what was inside without opening it. Arland had a habit of solving emotional problems with mineral deposits.
"It's the limited edition Pink Diamond necklace," Simon added when she didn't move. "He had it flown in from Geneva."
"Take it back," Isolde said, not even glancing at the velvet box. "Tell Arland if he wants to apologize, he can wire cash. I don't accept shiny trinkets meant for pacifying pets."
Simon shifted his weight. He had expected her to ask where Arland was, or when he was coming home. Her lack of questions seemed to unnerve him. "Is there... is there a message you'd like me to convey to Mr. Rhodes?"
"No," Isolde said. "Have a good day."
She closed the door in his face.
She walked to the console table in the hallway. It was already cluttered with other "apology gifts" from the past year-a bracelet from when he missed her gallery opening, a pair of earrings from when he forgot their anniversary. She tossed the unopened pink diamond box onto the pile. It landed with a dull thud.
Her phone pinged.
Isolde pulled it from her pocket. It was a text from an unknown number, but she knew who it was.
It was a photo. A plastic hospital tray with a bowl of soup, the steam rising from it. In the corner of the frame, a man's hand was visible, resting on the bedsheet. Isolde recognized the watch on the wrist. It was Arland's.
The caption read: Arland stayed up all night to make this for me. He's so protective. He says the hospital food isn't good enough for my delicate stomach. - E
Isolde stared at the image. Arland couldn't boil water without burning it. He had never cooked for her. Not once. When she had the flu last winter, he had hired a nurse and slept in the guest room to avoid catching it.
She didn't reply. She deleted the message and blocked the number.
An hour later, Isolde arrived at St. Jude's Hospital.
She wasn't there for Arland. She had a standing appointment with a neurologist for the migraines that had been plaguing her for months-stress-induced, the doctor said.
She wore large sunglasses and a heavy scarf, keeping her head down as she navigated the sterile white corridors. The smell of disinfectant made her stomach churn.
As she approached the VIP wing, she heard shouting.
Isolde stopped. She knew that voice.
"I don't care about hospital policy!" Arland's voice boomed down the hallway. "She needs the private suite! The one with the garden view!"
Isolde stepped behind a large concrete pillar. She peered around the edge.
Arland was standing at the nurse's station, looming over a terrified head nurse. His face was red with anger, his hands slamming down on the counter.
"Mr. Rhodes, that suite is occupied by a heart transplant patient," the nurse stammered.
"Move them," Arland snapped. "Emilie needs peace and quiet. If you don't move them within the hour, I will pull the Rhodes family funding for this entire wing. Do you understand me?"
Behind him, Emilie Blackburn sat in a wheelchair. She looked pale, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, clutching Arland's sleeve with a fragile, trembling hand.
"Arland, don't," Emilie whispered, loud enough to be heard. "I don't want to be a burden."
Arland turned to her, his expression softening instantly. He knelt down, wrapping his arms around her. "You are never a burden, Em. I promised I'd take care of you. I won't let you stay in a standard room."
Isolde watched, her heart pounding against her ribs. It wasn't just the anger; it was the passion. He was fighting for Emilie. He was willing to be unreasonable, cruel, and tyrannical just to ensure she had a garden view.
For Isolde, he had merely sent an assistant with a diamond.
Suddenly, Emilie's eyes shifted. She looked past Arland's shoulder, directly at the pillar where Isolde was standing.
Isolde froze.
Emilie's eyes widened slightly. She saw her.
For a second, the mask of the frail invalid slipped. A small, smug smirk tugged at the corner of Emilie's mouth. She didn't alert Arland. Instead, she let out a weak, pitiful cough, her hand going to her chest.
"Arland..." she gasped.
Arland whipped back around, his attention solely on her. "I'm here. I'm here."
Isolde pulled out her phone. Her hands were steady now. She took a photo, but not out of heartbreak. It was evidence. She didn't stay for her appointment. She walked out, feeling the last invisible thread tying her to Arland snap.
Isolde walked out of the hospital, the automatic doors sliding open to the humid city air. She hailed a taxi.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"Home," Isolde said. She paused, then corrected herself. "No. Just drive."
She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she had saved under 'Emergency'.
"Metro Storage and Moving," a voice answered.
"I need a discreet pick-up for tomorrow morning," Isolde said, watching the city blur past the window. "Antique furniture. High value. I need it moved out before noon."
"We have a slot. Address?"
Isolde gave the address of the penthouse. As she hung up, she felt a strange sensation in her chest. The pain was still there, sharp and jagged, but beneath it was something else.
Clarity.
