Sunlight crept through the tall curtains, spilling soft gold across the marble floor. The air was still — too still — except for the faint clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.
Jenna was already awake.
Elijah stood at the top of the stairs, his hair slightly disheveled, tie draped loosely around his neck. From where he stood, he could see her — sitting by the dining table, perfectly composed, sipping tea as if last night had never happened.
There was no trace of tears. No nervous glances in his direction. No greeting when he descended the stairs.
Just silence.
She didn’t even look up.
He paused halfway, eyes narrowing slightly. Something in his chest tightened — irritation or confusion, he couldn’t tell.
No “Good morning.”
No “Did you sleep well?”
Not even a polite nod.
She moved as though the house belonged only to her.
He walked toward the table, the sound of his shoes echoing lightly against the floor. She didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge him — not even when he sat down opposite her.
Her plate was neatly arranged — toast, sliced fruit, and a small cup of tea.
His side, untouched. Not even a second plate waiting for him.
She always set the table for two.
Always.
He stared at the empty space in front of him.
Then at her.
She calmly spread jam across her toast, her movements graceful and unhurried. The sunlight caught her face — pale, soft, unreadable. It annoyed him that he couldn’t read her anymore.
He cleared his throat slightly, though he didn’t say a word.
Still nothing.
Not even a glance.
She finished her tea, set the cup down gently, and stood. Her robe brushed lightly against the chair as she pushed it in.
“I’ll be late coming back today,” she said quietly. Her tone was calm — polite, almost distant — as if she were talking to a colleague, not her husband.
Elijah’s gaze lifted slowly, his expression unreadable.
She didn’t wait for permission or response.
She just turned and walked away.
No warmth. No tension. Just quiet finality.
He watched her go, his eyes following the gentle sway of her hair as she disappeared into the hallway.
The faint click of her heels on the marble grew softer until there was nothing left but silence.
He sat there for a long time afterward, his breakfast untouched.
Something about her calmness gnawed at him.
She’s too composed.
Too quiet.
He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing the rim of his untouched coffee cup. He wasn’t used to this version of her — one that didn’t wait for him to speak, didn’t rush to please him, didn’t fill the silence with small talk just to keep the peace.
Now, there was only distance — neat, deliberate, and sharp.
He didn’t like it.
But he couldn’t say why.
At least when she cried, he could control the situation.
Now she gave him nothing to hold on to — no anger, no pleading, no tears.
Just quiet indifference.
He stood finally, buttoning his jacket with slow, steady movements. His reflection in the mirror looked the same as always — composed, commanding, unreadable — but something beneath the surface wasn’t as still.
He picked up his car keys, his thoughts colder than his expression.
She’s learning to pretend I don’t exist.
Fine. Let’s see how long she can keep it up.
He left without another word.
But as he stepped into the car, the faint sound of porcelain breaking from the kitchen reached him — soft, fragile, like something had slipped from trembling fingers.
He froze for half a second, his hand tightening on the steering wheel.
Then he looked away, started th
e engine, and drove off.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
But his heart didn’t agree.
