The apartment felt strangely hollow after Miguel left. His presence, all noise and color, had temporarily chased away the quiet tension that usually hung between Alex and me. Now, the silence was back, heavier for the brief absence of it.
I walked over to the foyer table where Alex had, almost absentmindedly, placed the bouquet of white tulips. They were elegant, pristine, a startling contrast to the marble and dark wood. White was a clean slate, a beginning. I trailed a finger over a cool, waxy petal.
We're going to Switzerland.
The thought felt unreal.
Alex never took trips.
Alex never took breaks.
His world was dictated by his schedule, his routine, and the rigid walls he maintained around himself. Yet, a brief conversation with his exuberant childhood friend, a few well-placed challenges, and a strategically timed use of the word 'wife' had completely derailed him.
I went upstairs, a nervous flutter starting in my stomach. The trip was only a few days, but it felt monumental. It wasn't just a vacation; it was a forced proximity, a deliberate removal from the safe, separate routines we'd built in this house.
In St. Moritz, there would be no late work meetings, no separate wings of the house to retreat to, just a cabin, the snow, and four people.
In my closet, I pulled out the suitcase. It felt stiff, unused. I was usually an expert packer, efficient, organized, matching sets. Now, I feel lost. What did you pack for a "romantic" snow cabin getaway with your husband who was barely talking to you, but who you were secretly, intensely, drawn to?
A heavy sweater.
A pair of thermal leggings.
And the silk negligee I bought last month and never had the courage to wear.
My cheeks heated at the thought, and I shoved the sheer black lace to the very bottom of the suitcase, beneath a stack of thick wool socks.
Focus, Ava. It's a group trip. But the image of the cabin, the fireplace, the snow-muffled quiet... it made the air in my lungs catch.
Just as I zipped the case, a soft knock came at the doorframe.
"Ava?"
I straightened instantly. Alex stood there, leaning against the frame, his rolled-up sleeves and crisp white shirt a study in casual-yet-formal intensity. He was holding a sleek, dark garment bag.
"I… I'm almost done," I said, trying to sound normal.
He didn't move. His gaze swept over the open suitcase on the bed, landing briefly on the edge of the sweater I'd tossed in.
"The weather is brutal this time of year," he stated. His voice was deeper than usual, quieter, maybe because of the impending trip.
"It's St. Moritz. It's not a ski town for beginners, but the cold is serious."
"I packed warm things," I assured him, gesturing vaguely at the wool.
He pushed off the frame and walked over to my side of the walk-in closet. The air seemed to compress around him. He opened a small, high cabinet that I hadn't even realized existed and pulled out a long, heavy coat.
It was a deep charcoal gray, made of thick, immaculate wool, lined with what looked like expensive cashmere. It was clearly men's, oversized, the kind of coat a man like Alex would wear to an exclusive event in the Alps.
He placed it on the bed, near my pathetic pile of sweaters. "Wear this. It's warmer."
"Alex, that's yours," I said, a slight tremor in my voice. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and the unique, clean musk that was just him.
"I have others." He glanced down at the bag he was holding. "Miguel's an idiot, but he's right. A change of scenery might be good."
He didn't elaborate on what good meant.
Good for his business, good for his peace of mind, or maybe, impossibly, good for us.
He finally looked at me, his eyes holding mine for a beat too long. "We leave early Friday morning. I'll make the arrangements for you."
"Thank you,"
I managed.
He hesitated for a moment, and I thought he was going to say something more about that night two weeks ago, or about the ridiculous shirt I was still wearing, or maybe even about Miguel's ridiculously charming commentary. Instead, he just gave a curt nod.
"Goodnight, Ava."
And then he was gone, leaving the massive coat on my bed like an offering, a tangible piece of his armor I was now meant to wear. I walked over and gathered the coat in my arms. It was heavy, comforting, and smelled wonderfully, undeniably, like Alex.
Friday morning.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, hugging the luxurious coat. The invisible thread that Miguel had snagged and tugged was no longer fragile; it was starting to pull.