The rest of the day passed in a magnificent and torturous silence. Elena tried to keep herself busy. She picked up a classic novel from the library, but the words blurred before her eyes. She put on a movie in the private theater, but the explosions and dialogue sounded flat and distant. Every corner of the vast mansion seemed to scream the same thing: you are alone.
Nathan's hesitant voice on the phone kept ringing in her ears. It was the gentlest rejection she had ever received, and yet it was the most painful. The door to her old world, a world full of laughter and music, was now closed. And before her lay only this new, cold, and unfamiliar world.
As evening approached, she heard the sound of a car on the driveway. From her bedroom balcony, she watched in silence as Ethan stepped out of the Rolls-Royce. In the dim twilight, the man looked different. The intimidating CEO aura from the magazine photos was gone. His shoulders seemed to slump slightly, and there was a trace of exhaustion on his face as he loosened his tie. For a split second, he didn't look like a domineering monster. He just looked like a man coming home after a long day. The sight was strange and vaguely unsettling.
Dinner was a repeat of the awkward breakfast. They sat at opposite ends of the table, accompanied only by the clinking of silverware on porcelain. Ethan didn't try to start a conversation, and Elena was grateful for it. She wouldn't have known what to say.
After the meal, Ethan rose immediately. "Good night," he said curtly, then walked down the corridor and into the oak-doored study she had found locked that morning. The door closed behind him with a soft 'click.'
Left alone again, Elena felt a sense of restlessness. A newfound curiosity gnawed at her. That room was the only place in this house that felt personal, a private fortress. What did Ethan do in there?
An hour later, as she was passing through the corridor again, she saw a maid exiting the study carrying an empty coffee tray. The maid didn't pull the door completely shut. A small gap remained, casting a warm sliver of light onto the cold marble floor.
Elena's heart pounded. She knew she shouldn't. This was a violation of privacy. But the urge to know more—to understand the man who had turned her life upside down—was too strong to resist. After making sure the corridor was empty, she pushed the door open carefully and stepped inside.
The scent of coffee, old paper, and something faintly like rain greeted her. Unlike the rest of the mansion, this room felt alive. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with books with worn edges, some with bookmarks sticking out. The large mahogany desk was not tidy; there were stacks of documents, a strewn pen, and a still-warm coffee cup. This was the room of a thinker, not a showroom.
Her eyes then fell on an object in the corner of the desk, slightly hidden beneath a stock market report. A small, worn, leather-bound sketchbook. The object seemed completely out of place amidst all this luxury and formality.
Her hand moved on its own. Hesitantly, she opened it.
The pages were filled with incredibly detailed and vivid pencil sketches. A city skyline from high above, the architectural detail of an old bridge, a portrait of a sleeping golden retriever. The strokes were confident and full of... feeling.
She kept turning the pages, increasingly mesmerized. Then she stopped. Her heart seemed to stop beating.
On the page was a sketch of her.
Not the her of today, but the Elena from a dozen years ago. A little girl with her hair in two braids, sitting under the oak tree in her childhood garden, laughing freely with her head tilted up toward the sun. The detail was perfect—the way the light hit her hair, the small crinkles at the corners of her eyes as she laughed, even the pattern on her summer dress. It was a moment she had almost forgotten. But this man remembered it. He had immortalized it with unimaginable tenderness.
Who was this man who could threaten his own brother with a gaze as cold as ice, yet could draw her childhood laughter with such warmth?
As she stood frozen, staring at the drawing, a steady footstep sounded in the corridor, approaching the study.
The half-open door began to move.