Absolutely, babe. Here's Chapter 22 of Married to Mr. Laurent, written in Nova's signature emotional and poet
CHAPTER 22 – The Cold Morning After
The night was over, but its shadows lingered.
Kairo's penthouse was quiet, almost sterile in its silence. The polished marble floors reflected nothing but cold light from the chandeliers. Every sound—the soft clink of glass, the rustle of curtains in the early morning breeze—felt amplified. But there was one sound that never came.
Elián's voice.
He hadn't said a single word since they returned from the gala.
Kairo watched him now from the kitchen entrance, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Elián sat by the window with a steaming cup of tea in his hands, still wearing the navy blue silk shirt from the night before, the sleeves pushed slightly up his forearms. He looked too delicate for someone carrying so much silence.
"I didn't ask you to make tea," Kairo said, the words clipped, cold.
Elián didn't look up. "It's not for you."
The pause that followed wasn't silence. It was tension. It was every word Kairo didn't know how to say, suspended in the space between them.
Kairo took a step closer. "Still giving me the silent treatment? That's childish, even for you."
Still, no response. Elián lifted the cup to his lips.
Kairo felt something tighten in his chest. A bitterness he couldn't name. He hadn't slept. Hadn't touched Thomas. Hadn't even cared to. After the gala, he'd poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat alone in the living room while Elián quietly changed into sleepwear and curled up on the farthest end of the couch, pretending not to exist.
"Whatever this attitude is," Kairo said sharply, "it won't last."
Elián stood up.
Kairo's eyes tracked the movement. The boy wasn't trembling anymore. He didn't flinch under Kairo's voice. He was just quiet. Detached. Like he was slipping away without even needing to leave.
"I'm going to class," Elián said simply, setting the empty cup on the counter as he passed by him.
Kairo grabbed his wrist.
"Wait."
Elián froze, his breath hitching—not from fear this time, but from something else. Something like… disappointment.
"What?" he asked softly, not turning.
Kairo didn't know. He didn't know why he stopped him. Maybe it was the way his chest felt hollow when he imagined the boy stepping out that door. Maybe it was the phantom echo of Elián's laughter from a time long gone—before the marriage, before the bruises, before the resentment.
"Did you enjoy the gala?" Kairo asked finally, voice low.
Elián turned his head slightly, eyes unreadable. "Why are you asking me that?"
"Just answer."
Elián hesitated. "It was beautiful. Everyone looked like they belonged. Including me. For once."
Kairo's fingers loosened.
Elián gently freed himself from Kairo's grasp and walked to the front door. He paused with his hand on the handle.
"Kairo," he said without looking back, "You can't control how people see me anymore. You can't even control how you see me."
Then he was gone.
—
The boardroom that morning felt stifling. Kairo's fingers drummed against the mahogany table as the meeting droned on, but his mind was elsewhere.
Thomas hadn't called.
Not since the gala.
And for once, Kairo didn't care.
His thoughts kept drifting to Elián—how he walked out without fear, how the air seemed different now when they shared a room. Kairo had always been in control. Of his emotions. Of his people. Of his world. But lately, Elián's silence had become a force of its own. A quiet kind of rebellion that rattled him in ways loud arguments never could.
"Mr. Laurent?" one of the junior executives asked nervously, snapping him from his daze.
Kairo blinked. "What?"
"I asked if we're still going ahead with the rebranding campaign for Laurent Tech's Q4."
"Yes," he said flatly. "Do what I told you last week. No deviations."
"Yes, sir."
But even as he spoke, Kairo's thoughts drifted again. To the message Elián had received at the gala. To the way he slipped his phone away, unreadable. To the way he smiled at that stranger—the editor from the publishing house. A real, soft smile that Kairo hadn't seen in months.
Jealousy was unfamiliar. It was disgusting. It burned low and slow in his gut.
He hated it.
He hated that someone else could make Elián smile that way. Could make him laugh. Could make him feel like something other than property.
---
Later that evening, Kairo came home early.
Elián wasn't there.
It was past 7. The boy never stayed out this late without texting.
Kairo poured himself a drink, then stopped halfway. No. He didn't want alcohol. He wanted answers.
He paced the living room like a predator circling its cage.
At 8:13 PM, the front door clicked open.
Elián stepped in, cheeks flushed from the cool wind, fingers clutching a few books. His eyes met Kairo's—and for the first time in weeks, there was surprise there. Not fear. Just surprise.
"You're home early," he said, setting his books down.
Kairo didn't respond immediately. His gaze lingered on Elián's scarf, on the smile that lingered on his lips. "Where were you?"
"Library," Elián said simply.
"Alone?"
"Why?"
Kairo took a step forward. "I asked you a question."
Elián's expression shifted, hardening. "I don't owe you an explanation."
Kairo gritted his teeth. "You're my husband."
"No," Elián said softly, his voice like a knife wrapped in silk. "I'm your contract. One you never wanted. One you hate."
Kairo's breath caught.
"And yet," he murmured, stepping closer, "I'm the one standing here. Waiting. Wanting answers. What does that say, Elián?"
Elián's eyes searched his. "That you're confused."
Kairo's hand reached out—but this time not in anger. He touched Elián's cheek, just lightly. A whisper of a touch.
"You're not afraid of me anymore."
"I'm not anything to you anymore," Elián whispered. "And that terrifies you, doesn't it?"
Kairo didn't respond. Couldn't.
Because it was true.
Elián was slipping through his fingers, and for the first time in his life, Kairo Laurent—the man with everything—didn't know how to hold onto something without breaking it.
Elián stepped back, away from the touch. "Goodnight, Kairo."
And with that, he walked to the guest room.
The door closed with a quiet click.
And Kairo?
He stood alone, in a home full of glass and gold, feeling the sharp ache of something he couldn't buy back.
---
End of Chapter 22.