He stormed out of the bathroom without a backward glance.
His footsteps echoed sharply before fading into silence.
The door clicked shut with finality.
Isabella’s tense posture collapsed the moment he left.
She sank onto the cold tiles, arms wrapped tightly around her middle.
Even though she’d braced for it, the rejection still cut deep.
In Sophia’s shadow, she always felt invisible. Replaceable.
Wanted one moment, discarded the next.
A bitter smile touched her lips.
Her stomach ached from emptiness and nausea.
She pushed herself up, leaning heavily against the wall.
Hopping awkwardly on one foot, she made her way out of the room.
Her mind was set. She would resign. Leave Ethan. Start over.
The stiff sofa offered little comfort that night.
The chill seeped into her bones.
She drifted in and out of restless sleep.
Sometime deep in the night, the air shifted.
A subtle draft whispered through the room.
Her eyelids felt like lead, but she forced them open.
A dark figure stood near her.
“Don’t move.” The voice was low, velvety, and calm.
A large, warm hand pressed against her forehead.
His touch was surprisingly gentle.
He lifted her effortlessly.
The clean scent of mint wrapped around her.
But then came the sharp, medicinal smell.
She recoiled, coughing violently.
Her hand weakly pushed the bowl away. “I can’t,” she rasped.
“Just try.” His tone was firm yet patient.
Fingers gently tilted her chin upward.
“Ethan…” she murmured faintly, her consciousness fading.
The man stilled, his gaze dark and unreadable.
Reluctantly, she gave in.
The bitter liquid burned her throat.
As darkness took her, she felt herself being laid gently on the bed.
The sheets rustled softly.
Even in sleep, she caught his lingering scent—tobacco and something reassuring.
Morning light warmed her face.
She woke in the soft embrace of the bed.
Her body felt surprisingly rested.
“Did he come back?” she whispered, sitting up slowly.
Fragments of the night replayed in her mind.
That voice. Those eyes.
Could it really have been him?