The gala had been perfect.
Too perfect, maybe.
Every photo was already making the rounds online. My mother sent a text—three clapping emojis, followed by "Absolutely radiant. You two are the pride of Velmora." I didn't respond. Not because I didn't appreciate her enthusiasm. I just didn't know what to say anymore.
Celine and I had been flawless in the spotlight. Her silver gown. My carefully chosen compliments. The dance that drew so many whispers and headlines. We'd hit all the marks, just like we were expected to.
We gave them the illusion.
But when the lights faded and the flashbulbs stopped, we were just two strangers in a car, heading back to a penthouse that still didn't feel like ours.
She didn't speak during the ride home. I didn't either. Her shoulders were wrapped in my jacket, her profile still and unreadable against the city blur. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, the soft sheen of her hair catching the overhead lights.
I wanted to say something. Anything.
But what could I say that wouldn't sound rehearsed?
She beat me to the bedroom hallway when we got back. Her heels clicked once, twice—and then she was gone. No goodnight. No nod. Just the hush of her door closing.
I stood alone in the living room, shoes still on, jacket still off. I poured a drink and downed it in one go.
The silence was louder here.
I walked over to the piano in the corner of the room. I didn't play—hadn't since I was a boy. But my mother had insisted it be part of the decor. Something refined. Elegant.
Everything in this place was about what looked good. Nothing about what felt right.
I sat down on the bench, pressed a single key.
The note rang out, clear and low.
I thought about that moment on the dance floor. The way Celine had placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were cool but steady. Her eyes didn't meet mine for most of the waltz, but near the end—just as the final violin note slid across the floor—she looked up.
And there it was.
Not affection. Not even tolerance.
Just a mirror.
We were both exhausted.
---
I didn't sleep much. When I did, I dreamt of things I couldn't name—shadowy, tense things. I woke up before sunrise, the sky still painted in deep indigo.
I got dressed in silence. No meetings today. Oliver had cleared my schedule, as if even he could sense the hangover of forced perfection. Still, I needed to get out.
I left a note for Celine on the marble counter.
Went out for coffee. Back soon.
Not that she'd care. But it felt like something a husband should do.
I walked to a café two blocks away. No driver. No entourage. Just me, a hoodie, and a baseball cap.
The barista didn't recognize me, or if she did, she didn't say anything. I ordered black coffee and sat at the window, letting the heat seep into my palms.
Around me, the city was waking up. Joggers. Commuters. A kid with a neon backpack chasing pigeons. It was so normal it hurt.
I wondered what Celine was doing. Still asleep, maybe. Or pacing her room, planning the week ahead. Maybe she was rewatching clips from the gala, analyzing every smile and nod like I had.
Maybe she was wondering what the hell we were doing.
I stayed at the café for nearly an hour before heading back.
When I stepped into the penthouse, the air felt… off.
Then I heard it—movement from the kitchen.
Celine was there, in leggings and a loose navy sweater, barefoot, her hair pulled into a simple ponytail. She was making tea. When she turned and saw me, she didn't freeze. Didn't flinch. Just blinked slowly.
"You went out," she said.
"Yeah. Couldn't sleep."
"Coffee?"
I lifted the cup. "Walked, too."
She gave a slow nod and went back to her tea.
Something about the domestic quiet—the normalcy of it—made me hesitate.
"I left a note," I added.
"I saw."
I hovered in the doorway, not sure if I should sit or leave.
Finally, I crossed to the island counter. "You looked amazing last night."
She stirred her tea. "So did you."
I let the silence stretch. Then, quietly, I asked, "Did you hate it?"
Her eyes met mine. "Which part?"
"The whole thing."
She looked down at her cup. "It was necessary."
"But not real."
"Nothing about us is."
I winced. "Fair."
We stood there in the golden morning light, sipping from opposite ends of the kitchen like weary diplomats after a long war.
"I don't know how to fix this," I said eventually.
She looked at me again, expression unreadable. "Maybe we're not meant to."
I felt the weight of her words settle somewhere in my chest.
And yet, even as she turned and walked toward the hallway, something inside me stirred.
Because she hadn't said she didn't want to.
She just didn't believe we could.
And that… was different.
I stood there for a moment longer, my fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup. The day outside had begun in earnest—Velmora's skyline glowing gold and bold, indifferent to what unfolded behind penthouse windows.
I didn't follow her. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.
But as I watched her disappear down the hall, something in my chest tightened—not from bitterness. Not from anger.
From hope.
However foolish it might be.
Because somewhere in her silence, I saw something fragile—something that, if I was careful enough, might still grow.
Even if neither of us had asked for it.
Even if we didn't know how to name it yet.
And maybe that was the most real thing we had so far.