Follow her trace
The chandelier hung like a crown above the living room, its sheer size and splendour overwhelming the senses. Six feet of spiralling brilliance, it cascaded in endless tiers of glittering crystals, catching and scattering light across the room like shattered stars. The glow it cast was ethereal — a thousand shards of illumination dancing across the marble walls.
The living room itself felt more like a throne room — a stage for wealth and power. Five tuxedo couches and five elegant cabrioles were arranged with military precision, their arms and legs carved with gold filigree that gleamed under the chandelier's light. The emerald-green upholstery shimmered with a richness that almost glowed, a colour so deep it seemed to breathe. Eighteen crimson pillows, each crowned with a diamond fragment in its centre, added a quiet violence to the beauty — like drops of blood against a field of silk.
Beneath the chandelier stood a marble table, poised like an altar. Upon it rested a vase so exquisite it felt almost sacred. Royal blue, traced with delicate gold vines, its body was alive with raised floral motifs, as if the flowers had begun to bloom straight out of the porcelain itself. It was worth a fortune — a million-dollar statement piece. Yet, what made it priceless was not its cost, but the ritual it carried: every morning, fresh red flowers filled it. Even in this long-forgotten estate, that ritual never stopped.
"Arthur, I'll never understand you," my mom's voice echoed softly in the memory, calm but laced with exhaustion as her fingers brushed the vase's cool surface. "Why buy something so extravagant?"
My dad didn't turn. He stood by the window, the smoke of his cigarette curling lazily in the air, the newspaper folded under his arm. "Well, my love," he said without looking at her, "it seems to have enchanted you."
She sighed — a long, weary sound — and turned to Walter. "Fresh red flowers for the vase. Every day. Don't forget."
The air thickened. Beautiful things always hid pain in this house. No matter how far time tried to pull me from it, the memories would find their way back, like ghosts refusing to be buried.
"Arthur…" Her voice trembled. She placed the divorce papers on the table, her hands shaking. "Please — answer just this one question."
My dad inhaled slowly, eyes closed, as smoke clouded the air between them. He didn't meet her gaze. He didn't move. Just that quiet nod — acknowledgment without confession.
"When did you stop loving me?"
Silence. The kind that kills. Her sobs filled the room, and I stood frozen, powerless — watching her crumble as he stood unmoved. If he had just said anything — one word, one apology, one truth — maybe I wouldn't have lost her. Maybe Alex wouldn't have died. Maybe I wouldn't have become this.
It's extraordinary how one room can hold so much pain. This living room, this monument to success — to my dad's Hall of Fame, to the empire he built brick by cold brick — was also the place where love had died. The throne of his triumph had become the grave of our family.
I stood before the marble table now, staring at that same vase — at the flowers that refused to wilt — as if their stubborn beauty mocked me. I didn't even notice Michael until his hand landed gently on my shoulder. He held a file in the other hand, his voice even, professional.
"These are the rules for the violin competition," he said. "Read them carefully. Sign within three days."
"Three days?" I scoffed, my voice sharp enough to cut through the room. "Three days to watch my future collapse? To just sit back while everything I've built burns?"
Dad was still at the window. He lit another cigar, the spark flaring briefly like a dying star. He exhaled without turning to face me.
"Aubrey," he said, his tone calm, detached, almost regal. "Remember — fame, wealth, and power are what define an Ardel. Happiness doesn't exist in our lives. It never has."
I felt something inside me snap. The audacity of it — the hypocrisy. He, who'd shattered everything that ever brought warmth into this house, dared to speak of happiness as if he'd buried it himself.
I stepped closer, each word a wound. "Tell me, Dad," I said quietly, "did losing your wife knock any sense into that worthless brain of yours?"
For the first time, I saw his composure falter. That flash of humiliation in his eyes — it was intoxicating.
"You can either stand by what I do," I said, voice trembling not with fear, but fury, "or wait until I have you in the palm of my hand. And when that day comes, I'll make you wish I'd never been born. I'll strip away everything you worship — your name, your fortune — until you're nothing but another man begging for forgiveness."
I leaned in close, lowering my voice to a whisper sharp enough to draw blood. "How can you hope to control me, Dad, when you couldn't even keep a woman?"
The slap came faster than thought — a hard, clean crack that echoed off marble. My cheek burned, my breath hitched, but I didn't flinch.
"You will not tear down the empire I built!" he roared.
For a heartbeat, I almost laughed. The fury in his voice, the desperation — it thrilled me. "The old empire must fall," I said, smiling faintly. "For a new one to rise."
I didn't plan to hurt him. But some invisible thread snapped inside me, and the world blurred into colour and silence. One moment I was staring into his rage; the next, I was standing by my painter's bench, staring blankly at an unfinished canvas. The air was heavy, suffocating, yet outside — the world was white. Snow blanketed everything, pure and unbothered by human ruin.
Through the window, I saw the café across the street — the one where she worked. I don't know what pulled me there. Maybe I was searching for an escape. Maybe for salvation.
I walked through the snow until I reached the café door. Closed. Of course. It wasn't a holiday, but the sign said Back in 5 minutes. I sighed and turned to leave. Another dead end.
Then —
The door slammed open, hitting me square in the face.
"Oh my God!" a voice cried.
I stumbled back, clutching my nose. "Ah—sh*t."
A petite woman stood frozen in front of me, panic lighting up her face. "Oh no! Are you okay? I'm so, so sorry!" Her voice was soft and flustered, her blue eyes wide with guilt. She was small, with a button nose and a brown blazer that hung a size too big, her beanie slightly askew. She looked… human. Real.
"I'm fine," I managed, though when I pulled my hand away, crimson smeared my palm.
Her gasp drew the attention of everyone inside. I sighed, forcing a crooked smile. "If you don't mind… may I come in?"
She hesitated, caught between guilt and uncertainty. Before she could answer, a tall man appeared beside her — dark curls, warm brown eyes, built like someone who carried both kindness and control.
"I'm so sorry about that," he said, his tone sincere. "Please, come inside. We'll help you get that cleaned up."
"Thank you," I murmured, stepping past them — unaware that in crossing that threshold, I wasn't just walking into a café.
I was walking into the rest of my life.
And then, from somewhere behind the counter —"Who's that?"
A voice.Soft, familiar, impossibly so.
The voice I'd been waiting to hear for what felt like a lifetime.