The Words She Wasn't Meant to Hear
Morning came wrapped in quiet unease. The house, usually alive with the soft hum of activity, felt still—like everyone was waiting for something to happen.
Clara sat at the edge of the bed, watching the gray light spill through the curtains. Ethan had already gone to his office downstairs. She could hear his voice faintly through the floor, deep and measured. Another conversation she wasn't part of.
She stood, slipped into her robe, and moved to the hallway. The sound grew clearer—Ethan's tone was low, but the second voice made her stop halfway down the stairs.
Isabella.
"…you don't have to feel guilty, Ethan," Isabella was saying, her tone gentle but deliberate. "What we had—it mattered. And I think you still know that."
Clara's breath caught. She leaned slightly, careful not to be seen.
Ethan sighed. "Isabella, don't twist this. The past is the past."
"Then why do you look at me like that?" Isabella's voice softened to something almost fragile. "Like you're remembering what it felt like."
There was silence. Clara's heartbeat drowned out everything for a second.
Ethan finally spoke, voice tight. "Because remembering doesn't mean wanting it back."
Isabella laughed quietly. "You can say that now. But you're still here with me, aren't you?"
Her hand brushed his arm—Clara couldn't see it, but she heard the subtle shift of fabric. She could imagine it too easily.
Her pulse raced. She backed away before the creak of the floorboard betrayed her, her throat burning.
---
Downstairs, Ethan stepped back from Isabella, expression unreadable. "Enough, Isabella. This conversation ends now."
She tilted her head, eyes glittering. "You're angry. But not at me."
He didn't respond, just turned away.
Isabella smiled faintly to herself. "I'll take that as a maybe."
---
Clara didn't wait for him to come upstairs. She needed air.
In the garden, the autumn wind tugged at her hair, scattering leaves across the path. Damien found her there minutes later, hands shoved into his pockets.
"You look like someone who's about to start a war," he said carefully.
"I heard them," Clara murmured.
He frowned. "Heard who?"
"Ethan. And Isabella. She said he still looks at her like he remembers."
Damien cursed softly. "You shouldn't have listened to that. Isabella knows exactly how to get under your skin."
Clara turned to him, eyes glistening but fierce. "Maybe she doesn't have to. Maybe she's just telling the truth."
Damien exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Clara, I've known Ethan since we were barely out of college. He's dense, emotionally constipated, and terrible at handling feelings—but he's loyal. You're it for him. That's not going to change."
"Then why does it feel like it's changing?"
Damien had no answer for that.
---
Inside the house, Mandaline stood in the hallway, quietly observing as Isabella poured herself tea like she owned the kitchen.
"You seem comfortable here," Mandaline said, folding her arms.
"Shouldn't I be?" Isabella replied smoothly. "Ethan and I have history."
"History doesn't entitle you to a home that belongs to another woman," Mandaline said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight.
Isabella's smile didn't falter. "Oh, I'm just a guest. Though, if I recall correctly, Clara was once a guest too."
That earned a sharp look. "You think this house is what gives her place in Ethan's life?"
"I think her place is… negotiable," Isabella said softly, sipping her tea.
Mandaline's patience thinned. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"Maybe," Isabella said, setting the cup down. "But sometimes, danger brings clarity."
She left the room, the faintest smile playing on her lips.
---
That evening, when Ethan finally found Clara in their room, she was folding clothes into a small travel bag.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice low but tight.
"Nowhere yet," she replied without looking up. "But if this house is going to keep hosting ghosts from your past, maybe I need a few nights away."
Ethan's expression hardened. "You're overreacting."
"Am I?" She turned, eyes bright with restrained pain. "You've been different since she came back. Distant. Careful. Like you're afraid to choose."
"That's not fair," he said, stepping closer.
"Neither is loving someone who keeps looking over your shoulder at what used to be."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Ethan said, quietly but firmly, "You're making something out of nothing, Clara. Isabella means nothing to me."
"Then why didn't you tell her to leave?"
His silence was the loudest answer he could've given.
Clara's voice broke. "That's what I thought."
She closed the suitcase—not all the way, but enough. Then she turned, walked past him, and out of the room.
Ethan didn't follow. Not because he didn't want to—but because he didn't know what words wouldn't make it worse.