Arman sat behind his desk, the office almost silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. The resignation letter lay in his hand, creased at the edges from how many times he had read it. It was short—too short for Aliana. Every line felt cautious, measured, but it was the final sentence that dug at him the most.
Thank you for everything.
It didn't sound like her. It sounded cold. Detached. Almost mocking. Especially how she spoke to him in the office in the morning, She had changed, it was weird because no one changes this quickly... she wouldn't he had known her since she was little. So what changed? His eyebrow suddenly retracted as he thought of something. "Did she find out about Beatrice?" he paused. "No! how could she?"
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as the dull yellow light from the desk lamp bled over his face. The room felt smaller than usual, the air heavier, like it carried a weight that wouldn't settle. Finally, he sat up and reached for his phone, scrolling to her number. He pressed the call button.
Once. Twice.
Straight to voicemail.
He tried again, jaw tightening when the same dead silence followed. Her phone was off.
She never did that. Not Aliana. Even when she was furious with him, she always answered. Always had something to say back. The fact that there was nothing now sent a strange unease crawling under his skin.
Arman exhaled sharply through his nose, tossed the phone onto the desk, then stared at it as if it might light up on its own. After a few seconds, he picked it up again, scrolled lower through his contacts, and hit another number.
"Hello?" came a voice, slightly groggy and irritated.
"Samara, it's Arman," he said quietly.
There was a long pause. The sound of a soft sigh drifted through the line. "Why are you calling me this late?" Her tone was sharp but tired, with a hint of something else—guilt, maybe.
"I need to talk to Aliana," he said, choosing his words carefully. "It's about work. She's not answering her phone."
Another pause. This one longer, colder.
"Aliana isn't here," Samara said finally, clipped and tense.
"What do you mean she isn't there?" Arman straightened, the calm in his voice starting to crack. "Where did she go?"
"She left the house."
He stood up so fast the chair behind him rolled back. The letter slipped from his hand, fluttering to the floor. "Left? When? Where did she go? Is it about that guy she mentioned? Did she move in with him?" His hand curled into a fist, his brows drawn low, a possessive edge darkening his expression. "Who is he?"
Samara's exhale came loud through the receiver. "I don't know! And who do you think you are to ask all this after you just walked out on her like she was nothing?"
Arman's jaw locked. "I had my reasons."
"Well, then maybe she had hers too," Samara fired back. Her voice wavered slightly, the anger tangled with something deeper fear, hurt. "My daughter is gone because of this. Because of you. And who knows how broken she must've been to take such a decision. She isn't even talking to me."
Her voice cracked on the last word. For a moment, silence filled the space between them—thick, suffocating silence.
Arman shut his eyes, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose. Her words hit harder than he wanted to admit. He had done it again, Hurt Samara again with the same intensity as the first time she had lost Aliana. "I can't marry her and give her false hope. Samara, please," he said softly. "I just need to know she's alright." the guilt of Aliana's now growing up his throat he knew she was too pampered to know how to navigate the city on her own or even spend a night on her own. "Has she used her cards anywhere? like a hotel or anything? I will bring her back please tell me."
"She didn't and even if she did, I don't think you're in any position to know that," she snapped. "Goodnight, Arman."
The call ended.
He stood there for a long moment, the phone still pressed against his ear. The only sound was the low hum of the city beyond his office windows. When he finally set the phone down, his reflection in the glass stared back tired, angry, and unsure which one he felt more of.
He sank back into his chair and muttered under his breath, "Why does everything have to turn into a mess?"
The silence answered him.
After a while, he grabbed the phone again and dialed another number.
"Evelyn," he said when his secretary picked up, her voice small and startled, "I need you to find Aliana. I mean track her down, her phone, car or anything on her."
There was a beat of confusion. "Sir?"
"Yes," he said, voice low and firm. "I don't care how...just find it."
Evelyn hesitated, then said softly, "Understood, sir."
When the call ended, Arman rose and grabbed his coat. The office door shut behind him with a muted click. Outside, the city was half-asleep, bathed in the pale orange of streetlights. He drove without a destination, the engine's steady hum filling the silence that followed him everywhere lately.
He didn't know where he was going. Only that staying still felt unbearable. Like waiting for something he already feared had happened.