After the Dinner — a Silent Confrontation.

The dining room was warm — not from comfort, but from the low amber lights that hung over the long mahogany table. It was a quiet warmth, the kind that didn't reach the skin, let alone the heart.

Elijah and Alexander sat at opposite ends, half through dinner, the clink of silverware and the occasional rustle of a napkin filling the silence between them.

Then came the sound of soft footsteps.

Both men looked up.

Emma stood in the doorway — pale, composed, dressed in a simple blue dress that hung just right on her frame. Her hair was brushed back, her expression unreadable. There were no signs of the girl who had hidden away for days. No cracks. No tears. Only cool, collected silence.

She didn't move. Didn't speak.

She simply stood there — still as glass, eyes unreadable, chin held high. Her presence, even silent, shifted the air in the room. Thickened it.

Elijah glanced up first, sensing it immediately — the heavy tension stretching invisible threads between her and Alexander.

Alexander didn't react. His expression remained cold, but his eyes — they darkened almost imperceptibly as they met hers.

The silence lingered.

Uncomfortable.

Heavy.

Emma finally blinked, her shoulders loosening ever so slightly — and then, as if nothing had happened, she walked forward and pulled out the empty chair across from Alexander, next to Elijah.

"I hope I'm not late," she said quietly, without looking at either of them.

The maid appeared almost instantly, setting a plated meal in front of her. Emma murmured a soft "Thank you" and picked up her fork.

Alexander's voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp.

"Are you done acting childish?"

Emma didn't flinch.

She didn't look up.

"Yes," she replied, her tone calm, clipped. "I'm always childish."

Her smile — if it could be called that — didn't reach her eyes. She took a bite of her food like she hadn't just thrown a stone into the center of the room.

Alexander didn't respond. He looked at her for a beat longer, jaw tight, then returned to his plate.

The silence returned, heavier now. Elijah sat awkwardly between them, his gaze bouncing from one to the other like he was watching an invisible war.

To cut the tension, he leaned back and cleared his throat.

"Well, I feel like I should jump in before one of you stabs the other with a butter knife," he joked lightly. "Emma, we didn't really get to meet properly. I'm Elijah — the younger, more charming brother."

Emma finally glanced his way, a small flicker of amusement in her eyes.

"I remember," she said.

Alexander didn't speak, but Elijah could practically feel the simmering edge radiating off him.

"And," Elijah added with a playful smirk, "I'm kind of popular."

"Yes," Emma said smoothly, "You are."

Something in the way she spoke — detached, polite, vaguely entertained — made Elijah curious. But even more, it made Alexander shift in his seat.

Elijah leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, studying her with the kind of curiosity that wasn't invasive — just earnest.

"We've met before, haven't we?" he asked. "Not just at the wedding."

Emma tilted her head, smiling faintly. "I was wondering when you'd remember."

Alexander's fork paused mid-air — a heartbeat, no more. He didn't look up.

Elijah blinked, intrigued. "Okay, now I'm curious. Enlighten me."

Emma took a sip of her water before answering, her tone light but laced with something quieter beneath it.

"Two years ago," she said. "In Montenro Park. You were at the university festival, arguing with a fruit vendor because he gave you three bruised apples and charged you for five."

Elijah laughed, eyes widening. "Wait—no way. That was you? The girl with the lemonade cart?"

She nodded. "You offered to trade one of your bruised apples for a cup of lemonade. I refused, you tried to charm me, and I ended up giving you two cups just to make you leave."

He grinned, remembering now. "I knew you looked familiar. That lemonade was terrible, by the way."

"I made it with too much sugar. I was nervous," she replied, a small laugh escaping her lips. "It was my first day running the stand alone."

Alexander didn't speak.

Didn't interrupt.

But his gaze was sharp now — fixed, unreadable.

Elijah leaned back with a warm chuckle. "Small world. If I'd known you'd marry my brother, I would've brought better apples."

Emma smiled again, but this time, the smile didn't reach her eyes. She turned her attention back to her plate and resumed eating as if the moment had passed. As if Alexander wasn't staring at her from across the table.

Alexander set down his fork slowly, never taking his eyes off her.

She didn't look up.

Didn't acknowledge his gaze.

She laughed at Elijah's jokes. Answered his questions. Played her part.

Not a glance.

Not a word.

Just silence.

He watched the two of them — Elijah, warm and animated, spinning memories into something brighter; Emma, effortlessly slipping into the rhythm of conversation, her mask seamless.

But Alexander saw what Elijah didn't.

He saw the calculated detachment in her eyes. The way she sat tall, shoulders drawn back like armor. The effort in every movement.

This wasn't comfort.

This was defiance dressed in elegance.

And she wore it well.

Too well.

A muscle in his jaw ticked — just once. He reached for his wine but didn't drink. His thumb circled the rim instead, silent, steady, controlled.

Like always.

But something in him coiled tighter with every second she kept pretending he wasn't there.

Because for the first time since their wedding…

She was really good at it.

She was good at pretending he meant nothing.

And Alexander Wolfe — the man who never cared what anyone thought — found himself caring a little too much about a silence that wasn't his to control.

Elijah said something that made her laugh again.

And Alexander looked at her then — not just at her face, but through it. As if peeling back every careful layer she had built since that night in the parlor.

He didn't say a word.

But his silence, now, was louder than any storm.

And Emma didn't flinch.

Later morning, Emma descended the stairs in silence, her footsteps soft against the wood. The dining room table stood half-set, the smell of warm toast and coffee lingering faintly in the air. She didn't expect him to be there.

And he wasn't.

Alexander stood by the door instead, coat already on, leather gloves in hand. His expression was blank as always — impassive, controlled, distant. Not a word passed between them as she entered the room.

Their eyes met for the briefest moment.

She expected — hoped, maybe — for a nod. A sound. Even a scowl.

Nothing came.

Without a word, he opened the door and stepped out into the waiting car.

By early afternoon, she was gone too — backpack slung over her shoulder, books tucked under one arm as she slipped into the noise of campus. She moved through her classes like a shadow, answering when called, nodding when expected.

But her mind never truly arrived.

By dusk, the ache in her chest had grown too heavy to carry alone.

When her friend Lily called, cheerful and persistent, Emma didn't say no this time.