Zara Hartley had mastered the art of silence.
She didn't scream, didn't lash out, didn't block Dylan's number or throw glasses at the wall like in some dramatic film.
She simply disappeared from his reach.
She skipped the joint debrief with the design team. Canceled two standing calls they were meant to have. When she had to attend meetings, she sent one of her senior partners in her place—always polite, always professional, and always not Zara.
Dylan noticed. Immediately.
By Friday, he was pacing in his office, jaw clenched, phone in hand. The new contract with Hartley Global was set to launch, but everything felt... off.
Too quiet.
Too cold.
Too Zara.
He fired off a text.
We need to talk. Don't do this.
No reply.
He called. Twice.
Voicemail.
When Monday rolled around, he showed up at her building—unannounced. Security gave him a visitor pass with a smile, completely unaware that he was walking into the battlefield unarmed.
Zara's assistant greeted him with her usual poise. "Mr. Reid. Ms. Hartley's schedule is full today."
"She'll make time," Dylan said, stepping forward.
"I'm afraid—"
"She's in?"
The assistant blinked. "Yes, but—"
"I'll wait." He sat on the black leather bench by the glass partition like a man planting a flag.
Thirty minutes later, Zara walked out of her office.
She froze when she saw him. Just for a second.
Then the mask returned.
Composed. Indifferent. Regal.
"Mr. Reid," she said coolly. "Is this a surprise visit or just poor scheduling on your team's part?"
Dylan stood. "You've been dodging me."
"I've been working."
He looked at her—really looked at her. The fitted navy pantsuit. The low, neat bun. Not a hair out of place. Not a trace of the woman who had cracked just a little on that balcony.
"You can't pretend that conversation didn't happen."
Zara smiled faintly. "You'd be surprised what I can pretend."
"Zara—"
She stepped closer, her voice a whisper only he could hear. "If you keep chasing ghosts, you'll lose everything standing in front of you."
Dylan flinched.
And then, without another word, she turned and walked past him. Her assistant followed behind, heels clicking like a closing sentence.
Dylan stood there in the lobby, hands clenched at his sides, throat burning.
He had hurt her once, that much he understood now.
But this new version of Zara—this woman who could see him clearly and still choose silence—she was more dangerous than he remembered.
And maybe, just maybe... She was done letting him in.
\---
Celeste stood in front of her vanity, smoothing her blouse with hands that had been shaking more than she'd admit. The reflection staring back at her was flawless—pinned waves of gold, designer silk, diamond studs.
But perfection couldn't mask the gnawing question chewing at the back of her mind.
Where was Dylan right now?
Not literally. She knew where. He was "at work." Probably sitting in some glass office, signing papers and saying all the right things.
But emotionally?
He wasn't with her. Not anymore.
And she could feel it.
Her phone buzzed once on the marble counter.
Dylan: Meeting ran long. Will head home after dinner with Mark. Don't wait up.
Mark, Celeste thought with a dry smile. He always said Mark when he didn't want to say who he was really with.
She reached for her wine glass, took a slow sip, and walked into the living room. The penthouse was too quiet. Too perfect. The kind of silence that made you think.
Her mind circled back to the gallery event. To Zara. To that glassy, distant expression that was somehow louder than anything she'd said.
Celeste had expected Zara to flinch. Or sneer. Or fire back with a verbal dagger.
But she hadn't.
She'd dismissed her.
That was worse.
That was unforgivable.
Celeste sat on the edge of the couch, pulling a cream cashmere throw around her like armor. She opened her tablet and tapped into her shared schedule with Dylan.
His calendar was clean. Too clean.
That meant something was being erased.
Or someone.
She swiped over to the Hartley Global updates. There, Zara's name again. A quote from an interview just published: "When you're building something permanent, emotions are liabilities. Vision demands discipline."
Celeste stared at the line.
She didn't believe it for a second.
Zara wasn't cold. She was buried. Controlled. And now, rising. And Dylan—Dylan had always been drawn to the calm after the chaos. Or worse, to the woman who could be both.
Her throat tightened.
She reached for her phone and texted him.
Celeste: I miss you. We haven't had dinner together all week. Can we talk?
The typing dots appeared. Then vanished.
They didn't return.
Celeste set the phone down slowly.
She stood and crossed to the window, looking out over the glittering skyline.
She had won him once. Took him from a shadow of a marriage and gave him a polished, perfect life.
But now she wasn't so sure she still had him.
Because when a man looks at you with his hands but not his soul—
It means his soul already belongs to someone else.
And Celeste was starting to realize…
Zara Hartley had never really let go of Dylan.
She had just stepped out of the room.
\---
Zara Hartley didn't pace. She glided.
Even now, as the rest of the building powered down and the janitorial staff began their quiet evening ritual, she walked the marble floor of her office barefoot, wine in hand, every movement silent—measured.
The city glimmered outside her floor-to-ceiling windows. It looked just like her life did: bright, expansive, unreachable.
She stopped in front of the long glass wall, her reflection staring back at her. Sharp. Unmoving. Impossibly calm.
And yet—
She hadn't slept in two nights.
It wasn't the contract.
It wasn't even Dylan's face constantly showing up in places she had once ruled over without interference.
It was his voice. The one from that balcony. The one laced with something too raw to be strategy.
"I never stopped loving you."
What a stupid thing to say.
What a dangerous thing to say.
Zara took another sip of wine and closed her eyes. For a moment, the image came back like muscle memory: Dylan standing at the threshold of their old bedroom, fresh from a storm of liquor and self-loathing, eyes glazed over with hate and confusion.
"Your face alone makes my heart ache in sorrow."
She could still feel the cold in her spine from that night. Still hear the echo of silence when he left her sitting there—unwanted, untouched, forgotten.
And now he had the audacity to chase her with guilt like he was the victim.
The audacity to say love after all that poison.
She turned from the window abruptly and moved to her desk. From the drawer, she pulled out the ring box again.
That damned ring.
It glinted under the low light—mocking her. Perfect and worthless.
She almost laughed.
"Do you want him to feel your absence, or do you want him to regret it?"
That voice in her head belonged to Lani—her closest friend, the only one who knew the truth behind Zara's silence.
She remembered saying once, "I want him to feel both."
Now she wasn't sure if she even wanted that anymore.
She just wanted peace. Clarity. An answer that wasn't coated in history or shame.
Her phone buzzed across the desk.
A new message.
From Dylan.
\> "Please. Just five minutes. Not as business partners. Not as ghosts. Just five minutes of honesty."
Zara stared at it. No reply.
But she didn't delete it either.
Instead, she reached for the ring again. Held it loosely between her fingers.
Then she set it down—gently, but firmly.
And walked away from the desk, her glass still half-full.
Because the moment she replied, she knew…
Silence would no longer protect her.