The penthouse had become a battlefield of silence.
Ella woke up every morning to the same cold routine: no coffee waiting, no mugs on the island, no note. Just the faint smell of Alex’s cologne lingering in the hallway like a ghost. He left before dawn, came home after midnight. When their paths crossed, the air felt thick, charged, like one wrong word could set everything on fire.
She tried to keep busy. Hospital visits. Reading. Cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning. But the quiet pressed in, heavy and accusing. Every time she walked past his door, she half-expected it to open, half-dreaded it would. It never did.
Alex was unraveling.
He came home later and later. Shirt untucked, eyes bloodshot, the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. He didn’t bring women—no heels, no laughter
