Isabella gripped the suitcase handle tighter, her fingers shaking. Behind her, the imposing Sinclair mansion stood tall with its high windows glowing warmly.
A vicious lie. Not for her, that house has never been warm.
She listened as she walked cautiously and slowly down the stone walkway. Awaiting.
Any moment now, she told herself. He would come. Nolan would yell at her, tell her to stop and demand an explanation. He would fight for her.
But the night remained silent.
Her chest began to ache intensely. She paused beside the sleek black car parked in the driveway.
Isabella turned her head slightly, stealing one last glance at the mansion. The front doors stayed shut. The windows, though lit, revealed nothing.
No footsteps. No deep, commanding voice breaking through the night.
Nolan wasn't coming for her.
Her eyes welled up in tears but she fought the urge to cry.
Not yet. Swallowing hard, she placed her suitcase into the car's trunk, her every movement slow, as if giving him more time.
More time to understand she was leaving him.
More time to be concerned.
However, the mansion doors never opened.
Isabella's hands curled into fists, nails bitting into her hands. It has been foolish of her to hope.
Taking a deep sigh, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. A letter.
Everything she could never bring herself to say to his face was contained in those words.
I cherished you. I made an effort. However, I can't be the only one fighting for this marriage.
After holding the letter tightly for a while, Isabella looked at the elderly woman behind the doorway—Mrs. Hathaway, the housekeeper who has always been nice to her.
With a voice hardly audible above a whisper, she said, "Give this to Nolan, Ensure he reads it."
Mrs. Hathaway hesitated, sorrow flashing in her gaze. "Are you sure, dear?"
Isabella nodded. She was sure.
But as she got into the car, as
she pulled away, she didn't see the shadow lingering near the doorway. A pair of cold, calculating eyes watching her leave.
She didn't see the fingers that reached for the letter once she was gone.
Didn't see it disappear into the darkness, never to reach Nolan's hands.
°°°°
Ahead, the highway extended in a never-ending ribbon of darkness illuminated solely by the headlights of the vehicle.
Isabella felt anything but steady inside the car, even though the engine hummed steadily. Her knuckles turned white as her fingers clenched around the steering wheel.
All she felt was the crushing weight of everything she was leaving behind, even though every mile she put between herself and the Sinclair mansion should have made her feel free.
The memories were unexpected.
Nolan's icy stare when she first
understood that marriage was only a contract to him. On those night when she waited up in the hopes that he would return home early, she was let down. The way he stood with Evelyn in that study, remaining silent and allowing the harm to be done by silence.
She pressed her foot harder against the gas pedal. Faster.
She needed to get away.
However, the road seems to be taunting her by going on forever. The pain in her chest would not go away no matter how far she drove.
A road sign flashed green. The name of a town she was unfamiliar with. A place to vanish to.
Even though she was exhausted, she continued to drive, her vision fading at the edges. She only knew she had to go; she had not planned where she would go.
Ahead, a motel with a neon sign that flickered through the darkness came into view. ROOMS ARE AVAILABLE.
Isabella slowed the car and pulled into an empty lot. The building was old, the paint peeling from its wooden walls. A single light buzzed above the office door. She didn't need much but it wasn't much either.
A place to breathe, that's all.
She parked, shutting off the engine. The following silence was oppressive. As she exchanged money for a room key inside the motel, the clerk hardly looked up.
Room 12.
She locked the door behind her and entered the tiny, poorly lit room. A faded floral blanket covered the bed, and the air smelled of stale something and cheap soap.
Isabella pressed her hands on her stomach, trembling.
Had she made a mistake?
Leaving wasn't supposed to feel like this.
Her throat tightened. She curled up on the stiff mattress, her body sinking into the thin sheets.
And for the first time since
walking out of that mansion, she let herself break.
Tears spilled silently onto the pillow as she sobbed into the darkness, convinced this was the end of her story with Nolan.
°°°°
With a heavy heart, Nolan entered the bedroom and untied his tie. Evelyn had stayed behind, lingering too long with meaningless flirtations, while his meetings had run late.
It had been a mistake to let her get too close, but he hadn't pushed her away fast enough. Not before Isabella had seen.
He gave a sharp exhale.
Isabella.
He thought she would be waiting for him to explain, curled up on her side of the bed, stiff with rage. Rather the room was empty.
His steps slowed. His sharp gaze scanned the space—something felt off.
The closet door was open. Her clothes were missing.
Nolan's jaw clenched. A humorless laugh escaped him.
"So, she left?"
Of course, she did. Isabella was proud, too proud. He should've known she would pull something like this.
He unbuttoned his shirt, forcing himself to stay calm. She would be back. She always came back.
She would get tired of being angry, or maybe she would call just to argue, to demand answers. She possessed that kind of fire. The ice dropped into the glass as he poured himself a drink.
An hour passed. Then two.
Silence.
No calls. No messages.
Nolan's frown deepened as he sat on the edge of bed and rolled his glass between his fingers.
There was a problem.
Isabella might be stubborn, but this… This was not like the others.
His grip tightened around the glass. Had she really left for good? Over a misunderstanding?
His gaze flickered to his phone. He could call her. Find out where she was. Bring her back.
But then, something dark and unyielding settled inside him.
If she wanted to leave, let her.
His pride wouldn't allow him to chase after her. He wouldn't beg. He never begged for anything.
He finished his drink in one slow swallow, forcing the unease deep down where it couldn't touch him.
Yet, as he lay back on the empty bed, the whisper wouldn't leave him.
Was this really just about an argument?
And why did it feel like this time, Isabella wasn't coming back?