The Distance Between Two Hearts
The sound of the suitcase wheels against the marble echoed long after Clara had gone down the stairs. Ethan stood frozen at the top, his hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
He wanted to stop her—God, he wanted to. But his pride, that cursed thing that had built his empire, wouldn't let him move.
Clara didn't look back as she crossed the living room. Eleanor appeared from the corridor, her voice sharp. "Leaving already, dear?"
Clara forced a polite smile. "Just for a few days. I need some space."
"Ah," Eleanor said with a knowing smirk. "Space. The universal word for trouble in paradise."
Clara said nothing.
Isabella's heels clicked softly behind Eleanor as she entered the room, phone in hand. "Oh, Clara," she said sweetly, "I didn't know you were traveling. Should I tell Ethan to expect you back soon?"
Clara paused by the door, her knuckles whitening on the handle. "Tell him whatever story suits you best, Isabella. You're good at that."
The faint smile on Isabella's lips didn't fade—it deepened. "Safe travels, Mrs. Blackwood."
Those words stung more than they should have. Clara walked out without another word.
---
Ethan didn't go after her. Not immediately. He spent nearly half an hour standing in their bedroom, staring at the suitcase-sized emptiness she'd left behind.
When Damien came by later, he found Ethan sitting on the edge of the bed, head buried in his hands.
"She's gone?" Damien asked quietly.
Ethan didn't answer.
Damien sighed and leaned against the wall. "You know, for a man who runs half the city's contracts, you're terrible at handling one small woman's heart."
"Don't start," Ethan muttered.
"Fine. But what are you planning to do?"
Ethan's jaw clenched. "She said she needed space. I'll give it to her."
"Or," Damien said, "you could swallow your pride and fix it before Isabella twists the knife deeper."
Ethan's head lifted sharply. "This isn't about Isabella."
Damien gave him a look. "It's exactly about Isabella."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Ethan muttered, "I didn't mean for it to get this far."
"Yeah," Damien said softly. "No one ever does."
---
Clara checked into a small inn on the outskirts of the city—quiet, away from everything that reminded her of Ethan's cold silence. She spent the first night staring at her phone, waiting for a message that never came.
The next morning, her screen finally lit up—but not with Ethan's name.
It was a news notification.
> Blackwood CEO Seen Dining With Former Fiancée, Isabella Hart.
Clara's breath hitched. The photo showed Ethan and Isabella in a quiet restaurant, their heads bent close as if sharing something intimate.
The caption burned like acid:
> Is the CEO's marriage already falling apart? Sources say Mrs. Blackwood has moved out temporarily.
Her vision blurred. She set the phone down, afraid of breaking it.
He hadn't even waited twenty-four hours.
---
Back at the mansion, Ethan sat stiffly in the same restaurant photo scene—but reality was different. Isabella had arranged the "business dinner" under the guise of discussing a partnership deal. She had invited a photographer "by accident," claiming later she hadn't known they were being watched.
Now she sat across from him, smiling faintly. "Don't look so angry. It's just dinner."
"You know what you're doing," Ethan said through clenched teeth.
"Do I?" she asked innocently. "Or are you just seeing what you're afraid of?"
"Enough, Isabella."
She leaned forward, her voice lowering. "You think I want to ruin your marriage? I'm only reminding you what you gave up once. Sometimes the past comes back because it isn't finished."
Ethan stood abruptly, tossing his napkin onto the table. "The past is finished. Don't make me regret ever letting you back into this house."
But as he left, flashes from cameras outside lit up the doorway, freezing that moment—the angle perfect, the distance misleading. To the world, it looked like a man torn between two women.
---
Clara sat alone in the inn's small garden that night, her phone buzzing with message after message—gossip links, half-truths, pity texts from people she barely knew.
She didn't cry. She thought she would, but the hurt had gone beyond tears. It was a deep, quiet ache that felt almost empty.
When Mandaline's number appeared on the screen, she hesitated before answering.
"Clara, darling," the older woman said gently, "please come home. Things are being misunderstood."
Clara laughed softly, bitterly. "Are they? Because the picture looks pretty clear."
"Ethan isn't what it seems—"
"Mandaline," Clara interrupted softly, "I know you mean well. But maybe this time, I should stop pretending I don't see what's right in front of me."
She ended the call before Mandaline could respond, pressing the phone to her chest, her breath shaky.
---
Back at the mansion, Ethan returned late, exhausted, angry—mostly at himself. He walked into the empty bedroom, staring at the space where Clara's things used to be.
He sank onto the edge of the bed and finally whispered the words he should've said hours ago:
"Come home."
But no one was there to hear him.