The silence between them stretched for days.
Azrael hadn't returned home after the dinner party. Not that night, not the next. Isabella had stayed in their new house, the one that once felt like a warm escape. Now it echoed with memories that haunted her every step — the soft scent of his cologne on the pillow, the wine glasses they hadn't washed, the sweater he'd left draped over the chair. Everything was him. Yet he wasn't here.
She didn't cry. Not yet. Not even when she replayed the image a hundred times: him, standing there, his hand on another woman's waist. The woman's lips brushing his ear. His face unreadable, but not resisting. The words they'd exchanged. The storm outside had been nothing compared to the one he left inside her.
She didn't sleep the first night. She sat curled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and stared at the door until dawn. Her phone remained untouched. He hadn't called. Not a single message. And she refused to beg.
By the third morning, she was done waiting.
She stood at the full-length mirror in their bedroom, a quiet fire burning in her eyes as she looked at her reflection. Her cheeks were pale, lips dry, but her back was straight. She wouldn't break for someone who had made her feel like nothing. Not again.
She pulled her hair back into a low bun, firm and neat. Her dress was simple — dark blue, knee-length, sleeveless — hugging her waist and flaring softly at her knees. No jewelry. No makeup. Just the steel in her spine.
The driver was surprised when she asked to be taken to the hospital. She hadn't been back to work since the move. But she needed to breathe in something familiar. Something that wasn't him.
The hospital welcomed her like a forgotten rhythm. The clean scent of antiseptics. The buzz of nurses walking briskly. The soft beep of machines. It didn't fix anything, but it anchored her.
"Isabella?" Nurse Fiona blinked in surprise when she saw her.
"I just needed to… check in. Help a little. I don't know," she whispered, forcing a smile.
Fiona nodded and handed her a chart without question. "We've missed you."
Isabella spent the next few hours checking patients, changing bandages, helping where she could. A little boy with a broken arm grinned when she gave him a sticker. An old woman clutched her hand and prayed for her. For a moment, she almost forgot how hollow her chest felt.
Almost.
Around noon, she stepped out into the garden behind the hospital to get some air. Her legs sank onto the bench as she stared at the flowers, letting the silence settle. The breeze was soft, and the sky above was pale blue, completely opposite of the chaos inside her.
Then her phone buzzed.
It was him.
Azrael: Are you home?
She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the screen. A thousand replies swelled in her chest, but none escaped.
A minute later, another message arrived.
Azrael: I'm at the house.
She didn't reply. Instead, she sat still, her face expressionless as the phone slid back into her coat pocket. She didn't rush. She finished her shift. She even stayed an hour longer to help a nurse with patient files.
By the time she returned, it was already evening. The sky outside had turned a dusky gold, casting a warm glow over the white walls of their house. She opened the door slowly.
He was seated in the living room.
He rose the moment he saw her. "Isabella—"
"Don't." Her voice was calm. Quiet. Sharp.
Azrael froze mid-step. He looked exhausted. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his hair was tousled like he hadn't bothered with it in days. He was still in the same dark shirt from that night, the buttons open at the top, sleeves rolled up. But none of it softened the cold distance in her eyes.
She dropped her bag on the table. "You saw me. You saw how I looked at you. You knew I saw her."
He nodded once. No denial. "I did."
"And you still didn't come home."
"I wanted to give you space," he said, voice low. "You were angry."
She laughed — short, humorless. "You think I needed space? I needed answers. But you ran."
He stepped forward. "It wasn't what you think. That woman—"
"She touched you, Azrael," Isabella said, her voice suddenly rising. "She whispered in your ear. And you let her. You didn't push her away."
He exhaled sharply, hands raking through his hair. "You think I wanted that? I was cornered, Isabella. My father—he sent her. She was supposed to get a rise out of you. Out of me. It was a test."
She stared at him. "And you failed."
Azrael's eyes darkened. "I did nothing."
"You did nothing," she repeated, bitterly. "Exactly. That's the problem. You just stood there and let me walk away like I was… like I was no one."
The silence between them cracked then. Heavy. Real.
He stepped closer again. "Do you know what I did after you left?"
She didn't answer.
"I went to her. I made it clear she was never to come near me again. I told my father he could do whatever he wanted, but if he came near you—"
"Stop."
"I couldn't sleep." His voice broke slightly. "I couldn't think. I kept hearing your voice in the rain."
She looked away. Tears blurred her eyes but didn't fall. "You hurt me."
"I know." He was closer now. Close enough to touch. "But I need you to know something, and I won't let this fester between us."
She looked back at him, her face hard.
"I've never cared about anyone like I care about you," he said, voice raw. "Not out of obligation. Not out of strategy. Just… you. I don't know when it started. Maybe it was that first day in the hospital. Maybe the first time you made me laugh without trying. Maybe the first time I watched you sleep. I don't know. But it's real. And I'm not letting it go."
She swallowed, lips trembling. "You can't just say that and expect everything to be okay."
"I know." He reached out slowly, like approaching a wild animal. "But I'll say it every day until it is."
She closed her eyes.
When his hand touched her cheek, she didn't flinch.
"You're angry," he whispered.
"I'm hurt," she replied.
"I'll fix it."
Her voice cracked. "What if you can't?"
He leaned in, forehead brushing hers. "Then I'll never stop trying."
She stood still for a long time, letting the moment breathe between them. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Then, slowly, she stepped into his arms.
He held her like she was air. Like letting go would kill him.
No more words were needed.
Sometimes, when silence screams, the only answer is to listen.
And in that stillness, they found a new beginning — not perfect, not clean, but real.
And real was enough.