The ride home was brutal.
Not because Nicholas was shouting or accusing or even glaring.
It was the silence.
The kind of silence that was too composed. Too sharp. Cold.
Ella sat curled into herself in the passenger seat, her hands twisted in her coat, her nails digging faint crescents into her palms.
She hated this silence more than shouting. Shouting, she could handle. Anger meant feeling. But this?
This was Nicholas putting walls back up, brick by steady brick, like he was trying to protect something inside himself.
He didn't slam the door when they pulled into the penthouse parking garage. That almost made it worse. If he'd raged, shouted, done something messy—it would've matched the storm breaking loose inside her chest. Instead, he moved like he was being careful with himself, like he didn't trust what might slip through the cracks if he made one sudden move.
