After the IV was done, I expected the strength to come back.
It didn’t.
Dizziness clung to me like humidity before a storm. I stepped out of the treatment room and nearly lost my footing, catching myself against the corridor wall.
Dominic still hadn’t come back.
No call. No message. Nothing.
For a moment, I hesitated—then reached for my phone anyway.
Habit.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Dominic,” I said quietly, steadying my voice. “I’m still at the clinic.”
A pause.
Then, “Celeste… I’m sorry. I meant to come back after I dropped Adeline off, but she wasn’t feeling well so I—”
A second voice cut in before he could finish.
A staff member, casual, unaware: “Sir, your meal’s ready. Should I bring it in or—?”
Silence.
A faint shuffle, like he’d covered the phone too late.
But I’d already heard enough.
A meal.
That’s what kept him.
Not urgency. Not something unavoidable.
Just… dinner.
“It’s fine,” I said before he could recover. My tone came out lighter than I felt. “I’ll head back on my own.”
“I’ll come later,” he said quickly. “Go home first. I’ll explain.”
Explain.
He always had an explanation.
As if explanations could fix something already broken.
“I’m good,” I said, and ended the call.
**
The drive back to the manor was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in from all sides.
That night, Dominic didn’t come home.
From my window, I could see the glow of celebration from one of our territories—music, fireworks, men drinking like there was something worth celebrating. Probably a deal closed. Or someone’s return.
I didn’t bother asking.
Sleep didn’t come.
So I worked.
Jewelry sketches spread across my desk—custom pieces commissioned by people who needed protection they couldn’t buy legally. Silver-threaded bracelets, hidden blades disguised as ornaments, rings with hollow compartments.
My hands moved on instinct.
Detached.
My tablet lit up beside me.
A notification.
Adeline.
A post from a private circle I wasn’t even supposed to have access to.
A photo of the skyline bursting with fireworks—our territory lit up like it belonged to her.
The caption read:
“After half a lifetime away, I come back to where I belong. And the city welcomes me like it never forgot.”
My eyes lingered longer than I expected.
That’s when I noticed it.
The account logged in on the tablet—
Dominic’s.
His private line.
Still open.
Still active.
For a long moment, I just stared at it.
Then I closed the app.
No anger.
No curiosity.
Just… no need to see more of what I already understood.
**
The next morning, I went to the workshop like nothing had changed.
The forewoman read my resignation letter twice before looking up at me.
“You’re really leaving?” she asked.
“I’m going home,” I said. “There’s an arrangement waiting.”
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “We’re losing our best hands.”
I gave a small nod. “Thank you. For everything.”
Word spread fast.
By lunch, they insisted on a send-off.
We ended up at a familiar place near the old bridge—low lights, private booths, the kind of restaurant where deals were made over whiskey and silence.
Dominic had brought me here once.
Back when things felt… simpler.
Now it just felt like someone else’s memory.
Halfway through, I stepped outside for air.
The hallway was lined with dim lanterns and security cameras tucked into corners like quiet witnesses.
And then I saw her.
Adeline.
Standing there like she’d been expecting me.
Her smile was soft. Polished. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”
I gave a polite nod and moved to pass.
She kept talking anyway.
“Dominic used to bring me here,” she said casually. “Back when we were younger. We came often.”
I paused.
Not because it mattered—
but because I didn’t feel the need to pretend it didn’t.
She stepped a little closer, studying me.
“I noticed something before,” she added.
I didn’t respond.
“When he prepares food for you,” she said, almost lightly, “he always rinses it first. Does that mean you don’t handle spice well either?”
Either.
The word landed quietly.
But it stayed.
I frowned slightly.
That didn’t make sense.
I liked spice. Always had.
But Dominic…
Every time he handled food for me, he’d rinse it. Carefully. Like it mattered.
He said it was better for me.
I never questioned it.
I thought it was care.
Now—
the memory shifted.
Just enough to hurt.
Because suddenly, I remembered something I’d never paid attention to before.
Adeline didn’t eat spice.
And Dominic had learned her preferences long before he ever learned mine.
