Edward hadn't slept well either.
The city stirred outside his penthouse, a dull gray light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling curtains onto polished marble floors. The apartment was silent—too silent—save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft rhythm of rain against the glass.
"It's been raining a lot lately," he muttered, moving toward the bathroom. The air still carried traces of the night before: cold coffee, damp glass, and her voice echoing somewhere in the hollow of his mind. I think it's the only way I'll survive you.
He had thought he was ready for her decision. Hearing it out loud—calm, measured, final—landed like a blade beneath his ribs. Every breath caught on the memory of her standing there, unflinching.
Edward moved through the apartment like a ghost. Glass, steel, muted grays—expensive, minimal. It felt like home only because he had never called anywhere else that. The faint scent of cedar and musk lingered in the air, the same cologne she had teased him for wearing. He hadn't changed it since.
He dressed with methodical precision: black shirt, gray tie, silver cufflinks catching the morning light. Each movement was automatic. When he reached for his watch, he paused. His reflection stared back—eyes shadowed, jaw tight, exhaustion carved beneath the surface.
He wasn't late for anything, yet time felt like a taunt. He'd given his chauffeur the day off today. He needed the drive—the road, the quiet, the illusion of control.
Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. Edward slid behind the wheel, merging into the city's slow awakening. He was going to see his father. The words tasted like rust—bitter, overdue. Decisions needed to be made.
The streets shimmered, headlights blurring into silver streaks on the wet asphalt. At a quiet intersection, his thoughts drifted to the child. Their child.
A muscle in his jaw flexed. He hadn't realized, not fully, until Silver said she was keeping it—how much the idea had taken root in him. It unsettled him, how easily he wanted it. Fatherhood wasn't a luxury men like him could afford. But still… he wanted to try.
"Maybe you could be better than James Black," he muttered, almost laughing.
And then she'd taken it away. I don't want you around me anymore.
She thought he'd left because he accepted that. She was wrong. He'd walked away because pushing her then would have shattered something too fragile to repair. But he wasn't done. He'd never be done.
A florist's truck rumbled past, trailing the faint scent of gardenias through his open window—his mother's favorite. The memory struck like a bruise.
He was twelve the first time he saw his father hurt her. Not with fists. Not where the world could see. His father destroyed with words, with silence—a man who wielded control like a blade.
They'd called her death peaceful. Found in her sleep. No struggle, no signs. But he remembered her eyes the night before—wide, uncertain, afraid. Peace was the last thing she'd known.
He didn't believe in peaceful deaths anymore.
The city gave way to sprawling estates, with darker, quieter roads. At the end of a winding drive stood his father's mansion—tall black gates swinging open automatically, as if even the metal was responding to him.
Inside, the air felt colder. The house had a faint smell of cigars, wood polish, and something older—perhaps control. Edward handed his coat to the butler, who bowed slightly.
"Your father's expecting you, sir," he said.
Edward's lips curved slightly. "Of course he is."
As he reached the staircase, movement caught his eye. A woman was descending—mid-thirties, elegant, with honey-colored hair—her heels clicking softly against the polished hardwood floor. She moved with practiced grace, taking careful steps down the curved staircase.
"Edward," she greeted, her tone smooth and inviting. "It's been a while."
"Viola," he replied briefly.
"How have you been?"
"What's that to you?"
Viola smiled, her hands resting lightly on the railing. "We've known each other for two years. What's with this attitude?"
"I see no reason to be cordial."
"Of course," her smile wavered, remaining polite but strained. "Your father's in the study."
Edward nodded slightly. The faint scent of violet and wine lingered long after she disappeared. His father never lacked for company. Women changed—faces, voices, laughter—but not Viola. She remained.
His father treated her differently—gently, attentively, almost human. He had never shown his mother that kind of grace. He had never shown Edward that kind of patience either. That was what made it unbearable—knowing the man was capable of kindness, just not towards them.
Edward turned away from the staircase and walked towards the study. The hallways felt like a gallery of memories—laughter, whispers, and arguments hanging like cobwebs. He grasped the handle of the heavy door and pushed it open.
His father's study was somber, almost oppressive. James Black sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the newspaper in his hands rustling softly. Deep lines carved his face, stern and unmoved. People often said they looked alike. Edward never saw it.
"Hello, Father," Edward greeted, his voice calm and deliberate.
"Edward," he replied, condescension lacing his tone. "You're unexpectedly early."
Edward narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't aware I was expected."
James leaned back, steepling his fingers. "You haven't changed."
"I prefer not to," Edward said steadily.
James's mouth curved into a thin smile. "You sound like your mother."
Edward stared, a familiar heat rising beneath his skin. "Don't mention her."
"She was my wife, you know," James said quietly, almost too calmly.
Edward stood rigid against the wall, fists clenched at his sides, shadows deepening under his eyes. "Yet you treated her like nothing."
Silence stretched between them.
James's hands flexed against the desk. "I had my flaws. But your mother… she was complicated."
"She loved you," Edward snapped. "She gave you everything. And you—" his jaw clenched—"were never satisfied. She gave it all until she could no longer give."
Relief flickered briefly within him, a small satisfaction that he had finally said aloud the words he had carried for years.
James's shoulders stiffened, color rising to his face. "You're right. And I'm sorry. This is why I'm trying to make it up to Viola."
Edward let out a short, bitter laugh, hollow in the heavy room. "Is this supposed to make it better?"
"No. It's not." James rested his forearms on the desk. "But I'm trying. For you. For your mother—"
Edward's stomach twisted. He wasn't sure he could handle this confrontation, even if it was necessary. The tension, the years, the history—they pressed down on him like a weight.
"This is not why I'm here," he interrupted, voice tight. "Let's focus on that."
James studied him for a long moment before exhaling. "Okay."
He leaned back again, fingers drumming lightly against the desk. "We also need to discuss your engagement."
Edward nodded, allowing the tension in his shoulders to ease just enough to respond. "Now, this is why I'm here."