The Woman Who Stayed Too Long
The next morning, Clara woke up to silence. The kind of silence that felt heavy, like the pause between thunder and lightning.
Ethan's side of the bed was empty. The sheets still held his warmth, but he was gone.
She found him downstairs in the kitchen, dressed in a crisp suit, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was calm—too calm.
"Yes, I'll have her escorted to the guest wing. Make sure she's comfortable."
He hung up and finally noticed her standing there.
"You're awake," he said. His tone was neutral, professional—like they were colleagues again.
Clara folded her arms. "You're talking about Isabella."
"Yes."
"And she's staying here?"
Ethan hesitated. "Only for a few days. Her flight plans were delayed. It's temporary."
Clara nodded slowly, pretending she didn't feel her stomach twist. "Right. Temporary."
She wanted to ask why Isabella needed to stay in their home, but the words stuck. Ethan's expression had that same careful restraint he always wore when emotions got too close to the surface.
He moved toward her, reaching for her hand, but she stepped back. "You don't have to explain, Ethan. She's an old friend."
"That's not what she is," he said quietly.
"Then what is she?"
He opened his mouth but didn't answer. And that, more than anything, told her everything she needed to know.
---
By afternoon, the mansion felt different. The staff whispered. Eleanor's sharp heels echoed across the marble as she supervised the preparations for their "guest."
"She'll only stay a few days," Eleanor said, arranging flowers that didn't need arranging. "It's the polite thing to do. Isabella was practically family once."
Clara forced a polite smile. "Family seems to have many definitions around here."
Eleanor looked up, surprised at the edge in Clara's voice. "Don't take this personally, dear. You're young. You'll understand that people from the past never really leave. They just… linger."
Clara turned away before the older woman could see the tremble in her lip.
---
When Isabella finally arrived, she looked effortlessly perfect—hair loose over her shoulders, dressed in pale silk that caught the light.
"Clara," she greeted warmly, holding out her hand. "I've heard so much about you."
"Likewise," Clara said, her voice soft but steady.
"Oh, please," Isabella laughed, brushing her fingers against Ethan's arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Ethan and I go way back. I'm sure he's been too modest to tell you the details."
Clara's polite smile didn't waver, but something cold settled behind her eyes.
Ethan cleared his throat. "You'll be staying in the east wing. Damien will show you around."
Damien, who had been watching the scene with barely contained amusement, muttered under his breath, "This is better than any drama series."
"Damien," Ethan warned.
"What? I'm just saying."
Clara nearly laughed, but it came out as a sigh.
---
Later that evening, Clara found herself alone in the garden, trying to breathe.
She hated how easily the past had walked through their front door and made itself at home. She hated how Ethan had looked at Isabella—not with love, but with guilt.
Behind her, footsteps crunched on the gravel.
"Running away from the battlefield already?" Isabella's voice floated through the air.
Clara turned, her expression unreadable. "I didn't realize there was a war."
"There always is," Isabella said lightly. "Especially when the prize is a man like Ethan."
Clara didn't flinch. "Then I suppose you're fighting for nothing. I didn't marry him to win."
"Did you marry him for love?" Isabella asked, smiling faintly.
Clara hesitated—just for a second—but Isabella saw it.
"Thought so," she whispered, and walked away, leaving the scent of expensive perfume and doubt behind her.
---
Inside, Ethan watched from the window. He'd seen enough to know something had shifted—and that he had no idea how to fix it without breaking something else.
When he joined Clara later, she was silent.
"You shouldn't let her get to you," he said softly.
"She's not the problem," Clara replied. "It's what you won't say that is."
He reached for her again, and again she stepped away.
"I'm trying to protect you," he said.
"From what?"
"From the past."
Clara met his gaze, her voice trembling. "Maybe the past doesn't want to stay buried. Maybe it came back because you never really let it go."
The silence between them this time wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that broke things slowly, piece by piece.