RYLEE

The house is too quiet after Adrian leaves.

I tell myself I like it that way — the silence. It means no arguing, no tension weighing down the air like heavy chains. But as I wander through the rooms, my fingers trailing along familiar furniture edges, the quiet feels less like peace and more like absence.

I don't bother correcting Adrian when he assumes I'm going into the office. It's easier that way. The truth — that I've been working from home for months now — feels too intimate to share. As if telling him would somehow crack the brittle wall between us.

Besides, he never asked.

I stretch out on the couch, my laptop balanced on my thighs, but the blinking cursor on my design software mocks me. The ideas won't come, my brain stuck in a foggy loop of memories I can't seem to shut off.

I close the laptop with a sigh, pushing myself up. Maybe I just need to move.

I wander through the living room, pausing by the bookshelf. My fingers graze the spines of books Adrian picked out, titles I never read but kept because they felt like pieces of him. My chest tightens, and I step back as if the books themselves might burn me.

The sun spills golden streaks across the hardwood floors as I pace through the house. The kitchen still smells like pancakes, the remnants of breakfast lingering like ghosts. I should probably clean up the dishes, but I don't.

I slip onto the back patio instead, letting the cool morning air bite against my skin. The garden is overgrown — I haven't had the energy to tend to it. Adrian used to help me plant flowers in the spring, pretending he didn't care but always meticulously aligning each row.

I press my palm against the wooden railing, exhaling slowly.

Maybe I should quit the counseling sessions. Maybe I should stop clinging to the hope that we can fix what's already shattered.

The phone buzzes in my pocket, jolting me from my thoughts.

I glance at the screen.

Ethan.

My stomach twists. I debate ignoring the call, but I know Ethan. He'd just keep trying.

I swipe to answer. "Hello?"

"Rylee," Ethan's voice slides through the speaker, smooth and dripping with false warmth. "Long time, no chat."

I lean against the railing, rubbing my temple. "What do you want, Ethan?"

"Straight to the point. I like that," he chuckles. "I was just thinking about you and decided to check in. How's life?"

I roll my eyes. "It's fine."

"Fine?" He tuts like I've disappointed him. "Come on, you can do better than that. How's the design work? Still making magic?"

"I guess," I mutter, already exhausted by the conversation. Ethan always talks like we're old friends, but there's an undercurrent to his words that makes my skin prickle.

"I might have a little project for you," he says, voice light but deliberate. "If you're interested."

"I'm not."

He laughs. "You haven't even heard what it is."

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Ethan, I'm not really taking on new projects right now—"

"It's for my hotel."

I pause.

He takes my silence as an opening to continue.

"We're doing a complete rebrand," he says, his tone dripping with calculated charm. "New logo, new visual direction, the whole thing. And I thought, who better to bring it to life than you?"

I stare out at the garden, my chest tightening. The last thing I want is to be tangled up in Ethan's world — a world Adrian hates.

"I can refer you to someone else," I say carefully. "My team has great designers—"

"No one does what you do," Ethan cuts in smoothly. "I don't want some junior artist. I want you, Rylee."

I hate the way he says my name, like it's a lure.

"I really can't," I insist. "I'm busy—"

"Please."

The sudden softness in his voice throws me off.

"I know you're swamped, but this is important," he presses, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "I need someone I can trust with this. Someone who gets the vision."

Trust. That word sits sour on my tongue.

"Just meet with me," he coaxes. "One meeting. If you hate the pitch, I'll never bother you again."

I lean my head back, staring at the sky. The last thing I want is to get sucked into Ethan's orbit, but a part of me — the part that's drowning in unspoken pain and creative block — wonders if maybe a distraction wouldn't be the worst thing.

"Send your proposal to my team," I say finally. "I'll look at the contract."

Ethan exhales, relief threading through his voice. "You won't regret it, Rylee. This is going to be huge."

I don't respond.

I hang up instead, the weight of the decision settling like bricks in my chest.

I slip back inside, shutting the patio door with a quiet click.

The house feels heavier somehow, like it knows I've just invited another storm in.

I sink onto the couch, hugging a pillow to my chest. The idea of working with Ethan makes my skin crawl, but maybe it'll keep my mind off Adrian.

Maybe I need something — anything — to stop the ache that keeps spreading through me like wildfire.

Because the truth is, I don't know how to exist in this house with Adrian anymore.

Not when every glance feels like a wound.

Not when every touch feels like a scar.

And especially not when part of me still stupidly wishes he'd fight for me.