Chapter 118: Without Even Seeing Me....
I stir in the slow, heavy drift of sleep. The kind of sleep that holds you deep beneath the surface, wrapped in warmth and darkness, where time loses its shape and the world feels distant. My fingers curl into the sheets, searching, reaching—a familiar habit I didn’t realize I had formed.
Expecting warmth where there should be warmth. Expecting the soft weight of a body pressed against mine, the quiet rhythm of breath that has become the soundtrack to my nights.
But there is nothing.
My hand rests against the cool sheet, spread across the hollow where he should be. The fabric is smooth, already cold.
I blink once. Twice. The haze of sleep begins to recede, replaced by a slow, creeping awareness.
My eyes drift to the empty space beside me.
Where is he?
I sit up slowly. The blanket pools around my waist in a soft, heavy cascade. My shirt hangs open, a few buttons undone from sleep, the fabric loose against my chest.
Last night clings to me like a second skin. I can still feel the weight of him pressed against my chest, his face buried in the hollow of my neck, his arms wrapped around me with a desperation that needed no words. I can still feel the faint tremble of his body, the lingering heat of his fever, the way he held on as if I were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
A faint smile touches my lips at the memory.
But it fades as my gaze drifts to the empty space beside me.
Why is it that every time I wake up, he’s already gone?
The room is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, heavy with absence. The light beyond the glass wall is pale and muted, filtered through layers of cloud and rain. No gold. No warmth. Just a gray morning that seems to be holding its breath.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet find the slippers waiting on the floor, and I slide into them. Then I walk toward the glass wall, my steps slow, my gaze fixed on the world beyond.
The glass is cold beneath my fingertips. A thin layer of condensation clings to it, blurring the garden into soft watercolor shapes. I can make out the outline of the roses, the curve of the stone paths, the faint shimmer of rain on wet pavement. Everything looks softened, distant, as though the world itself is still asleep.
I unlock the latch and slide the glass door open.
Cold air rushes in immediately, sharp enough to cut through the warmth of the room. It steals my breath for a moment, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and winter. I don’t step back. I don’t flinch. I simply stand there, letting the chill settle into my skin and clear the last traces of sleep from my mind.
I lift a hand into the mist.
The rain is little more than a fine drizzle, but the droplets cling to my skin before sliding away in cold silver trails.
The garden is a study in gray and white. The green of the grass is washed to a muted silver, the petals of the roses heavy with rain, their heads bowed beneath its weight. At the edges of the garden, the winter jasmines are beginning to bloom—small, fragile, defiant. They haven’t fully opened yet, but they’re there, hidden among bare branches, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves.
I stand there for a long moment, my hand still raised, the rain misting against my skin. Time slips away, soft and unmeasured.
Last year, I was alone.
The thought settles quietly in my chest.
I was alone in this house. In this bed. In this life.
I woke to silence and fell asleep to it. There was no one to reach for. No warmth to miss. No absence to notice.
But this year...
Last year, I never noticed the silence. Now I do.
I let the thought linger. It feels strange to admit it, even to myself. Stranger still to realize that somewhere along the way, his presence became something I started expecting.
A faint smile touches my lips.
The weather is perfect for coffee date.
I’ll take him to that hidden café inside the winter botanical gardens—the one surrounded by rare flowers and glass walls that turn silver when it rains. Quiet. Warm. He’ll like it.
He’ll sit across from me, his hands wrapped around a warm cup, his eyes soft as he watches the rain beyond the glass.
And I’ll watch him.
The thought settles somewhere deep in my chest. Unexpected.
I slide the glass door shut, lock it, and turn away.
He’s probably in the kitchen.
Of course he is.
Feverish last night, and this morning he’s already standing at the stove, moving with that quiet determination, pouring himself into every small gesture like it matters.
I leave the room, following the familiar path toward the kitchen.
He’s so stubborn. He never listens to me. He never rests.
A small, exasperated smile touches my lips.
Maybe I should tie him to the bed. So when I wake up, he’s still there. Still beside me. Where he’s supposed to be.
But as I step into the kitchen, the thought dies on my lips.
The smile fades from my face, slow and cold, like the retreat of sunlight behind heavy clouds.
Secretary Nick stands at the stove, his movements precise, practiced, impersonal. The spatula moves in his hand with mechanical efficiency, turning eggs with the dispassion of someone who has done it a thousand times before.
He looks up at the sound of my footsteps, his gaze finding mine with professional neutrality. He bows his head slightly.
"Good morning, Mr. Ellis."
I stare at him.
For a long moment, I don’t speak.
The silence stretches between us, filled only by the soft hiss of the stove and the steady rhythm of rain against the glass wall.
Then I step forward, my voice quiet and flat.
"What are you doing here?"
Nick adjusts his glasses with a practiced hand.
"Boss had urgent business to attend to in X Country. He left early this morning." A brief pause. "He instructed me to ensure you eat breakfast before leaving for the office."
X Country.
He left.
My hands curl at my sides. The fabric of my sleeve twists between my fingers, the motion unconscious, the tension settling in my jaw.
"How could he leave like this? Last night, he was burning with fever."
Nick’s expression doesn’t change.
"I assure you, sir—the boss’s fever had broken completely by morning. He was in good health when he departed."
I hold his gaze, searching for something—anything—that might betray a hidden meaning. A secret. An omission.
There is nothing. Only the same calm professionalism.
"Why didn’t you go with him? You’re his secretary."
"Boss instructed me to remain here." A brief pause. "To take care of you. And to oversee business matters in his absence."
Take care of me.
The words settle poorly.
Does he really think I’m a child?
I turn without another word. My voice comes out flat, cold, a door closing.
"You may leave."
"Mr. Ellis—your breakfast—"
"I’m not hungry."
I walk out of the kitchen.
My steps steady, my face a mask of calm.
But inside, something cold and restless twists in my chest—a knot of emotions I don’t want to name, a feeling that slips through my fingers like water.
Last night, he said he didn’t want to leave me. He said he was afraid of being apart from me. And now he’s gone.
Without a word.
Without even seeing me.
Comments