Not with someone who's always trying to ruin her life.
That was what Melisa wanted to say. But the words stayed in her throat.
She waited—for a denial, a reaction, even just a flicker of clarity. But Leonard said nothing.
The silence dragged, stretched, began to choke.
Then, out of nowhere, he laughed.
Not warm. Not amused. Just... hollow. Self-mocking. Like he was laughing at himself.
Startled, Melisa turned her head to look at him. He wasn't even looking at her—his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, that same frustrating calm on his face, except now it was tinged with something more dangerous: vulnerability.
That made her nervous. Leonard didn't show cracks. Not the real ones.
"Melisa," he said, voice low, oddly gentle. "Do you really think I'd love Olivia?"
She blinked. Her grip on the blanket tightened. "I don't know," she said honestly. "You never say what you feel. How am I supposed to know what's true and what's just... habit?"
His gaze cut to her, sharp and unreadable. "If I loved Olivia, do you think I'd be here right now—in bed with you?"
Melisa bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn't that simple. Nothing ever was.
"But that day," she started, careful, "you stepped in for Tristan. No one forced you. You could've said no."
Leonard's expression darkened, his jaw clenching for half a second before he turned away.
That told her more than any reply would've.
She waited for him to explain. He didn't. Instead, his eyes shut, brows furrowed as if he wanted to shut everything out—including her.
Fine.
If he wanted to build walls, she wasn't going to beg him to open a door.
She stayed quiet. One of them had to.
They didn't speak again that night. They just lay there, backs to each other, while the moonlight spilled across the room like something soft that didn't belong.
It was morning when she noticed.
The other side of the bed was cold.
Melisa blinked at the empty space, confused. Leonard never left before her. Not recently. Not without saying anything.
Her hand slid over the untouched pillow. Cold. He'd been gone a while.
Downstairs, she ran into Uncle George just as he was leaving for the office. He gave her a polite nod, offered a tired smile.
"Morning, Melisa," he said. "Sleep well?"
She lied. "Of course."
He didn't press. He rarely did.
Aunt Eleanor, however, noticed everything.
She was already seated at the dining table, scrolling through her phone and sipping tea. The moment Melisa stepped in, Eleanor looked up and smiled like she'd been waiting.
"Come sit, dear."
Breakfast was warm. Uneventful. Aunt Eleanor rambled about her recent meet-up with old friends, the taste of an overpriced dessert, and her disappointment in how someone dressed for brunch.
Melisa nodded along, mostly quiet, the kind of polite silence that made people think you were listening even when your mind was elsewhere.
Then the tone shifted.
"I noticed Leonard left early," Eleanor said, her voice mild—but her eyes sharp. "Did something happen between you two?"
Melisa froze mid-bite. Her throat tightened, but she said nothing.
The pause was enough.
Eleanor reached across the table, her hand settling gently over Melisa's. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Every couple has misunderstandings. What matters is not letting silence turn into distance."
Melisa gave a faint smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
Before she could deflect, Eleanor changed the subject like she hadn't just thrown a subtle life preserver. "His office is on your way, right? Take lunch to him. I already had the kitchen pack some up."
Melisa blinked. "I—what?"
"Help me deliver it," Eleanor said smoothly. "You can't expect a man to survive on vending machines."
Melisa hesitated. Something in her chest pulled back. But she nodded. "Okay."
She left early. The neatly packed meal in her lap felt heavier than it should.
The car ride was short. Barely twenty minutes.
The building loomed ahead, all steel and glass. Cold. Perfect. Intimidating.
She stepped out, heels clicking against marble as she entered the lobby. Almost instantly, a receptionist straightened up behind the front desk.
"Good morning, ma'am. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Leonard?"
Melisa's brows knit. "I'm just delivering—"
"I'm sorry," the woman interrupted, still smiling, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Company policy."
Ah. That kind of smile.
Melisa knew it. The receptionist had probably seen dozens of women try to sneak their way into Leonard's orbit. The faint trace of disdain in her expression said as much.
Before Melisa could reply, a voice called out.
"Miss Melisa?"
A man in a sleek gray suit approached—Leonard's assistant. She vaguely remembered seeing him at the engagement banquet.
"I'll take you to him," he said politely.
The receptionist's smile faltered. Just a little.
Melisa didn't smirk—but it was a near thing.
As they walked toward the elevator, her unease returned. Leonard had left before sunrise. No breakfast. No note. No explanation.
Was he avoiding her?
Would he even be glad to see her?
And more importantly—was she ready to hear the answer if he wasn't?