The silence in Eleanor's Notting Hill flat pulsed like a living thing. It made her skin itch. She moved restlessly from the kitchen to the living room to the bedroom, trailing her fingers across polished surfaces as if touch might anchor her. It didn't.
Everything felt hollow, as though the rooms had been emptied of their purpose the moment she lost access to the life she once curated like a gallery exhibit.
She paused in front of the tall hallway mirror. Her reflection looked brittle. The glossy hair. The high cheekbones. The perfectly applied make-up. Everything intact, and yet nothing in place. She looked like a woman assembled for admiration, not affection.
Why had she gone to the house?
She tried, truly tried, to justify it to herself. She whispered excuses into the stillness as if saying them aloud might make them sound less shameful.
"I needed to feel alive again."
"I needed attention."
"I needed someone to look at me the way they used to."
Each explanation crumbled as soon as it formed. Even she could hear how flimsy they were.
She sank onto the sofa and wrapped her arms around her waist. The cushions still held the faint scent of the lavender spray she used, a fragrance she once associated with calm. Now it made her slightly nauseous. She stared at the ceiling, fighting the rising sense of collapse.
She had not been a good wife. She understood that now with awful clarity. She had become resentful, irritable, cold. She had not been the mother she should have been either. Babysitters had done most of the nurturing. The bedtime routines, the homework, the emotional labour. She had been present in theory, absent in practice.
Richard's voice from their last conversation lingered like a bruise, calm, controlled, unmistakably final.
He would not have her back. She had heard it in his tone, a tone she had never heard from him before. He didn't shout. He didn't belittle. He simply closed a door. And she knew instinctively that it would not reopen.
She reached for her phone, desperate for a distraction, an invitation, a message, anything. But the screen showed nothing except promotional emails.
Her social calendar, once overflowing, had evaporated almost overnight. No more champagne brunches. No art gallery openings. No casual lunch invitations. No glamorous parties in Chelsea or Belgravia. It was as though the moment their divorce became public knowledge, her value in those circles vanished.
Her throat tightened.
So that was the truth. She had been included because of him, not because of anything she brought. She had been the polished wife of a successful man. A decorative addition, not a meaningful presence.
Humiliation surged through her like heat.
She pushed herself off the sofa and began pacing, fists clenched, jaw tight.
All those years she had stayed home. All those years she had sacrificed what she once imagined her life could be. She had chosen his suits, kept the house immaculate, carried and birthed his children, attended every event, listened to his every complaint, soothed every fear, while he thrived. While he built an empire from scratch. While he earned admiration, respect, influence.
Where was her admiration? Her future? Her reward for making him a success? What had she been left with?
She stopped in front of the mirror again, her expression twisting with resentment. He had everything. She had stretch marks, loneliness, and a reputation slipping through her fingers.
"This isn't fair," she whispered, her voice cracking.
But fairness had nothing to do with it.
She lowered her head and pressed her palms to the cool marble countertop. For the first time, she understood the full scale of what she had destroyed. Not just her marriage. Not just her place in society.
She had destroyed herself.
When Richard stepped through the front door, the warm scent of ginger, garlic, and soy sauce greeted him. Pots clattered gently in the kitchen, and he smiled faintly as he set down his keys.
Drew and Chloe stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter. Chloe chopped spring onions while Drew handled the wok with quiet concentration.
Chloe brightened when she saw him. "We're experimenting. Don't judge us yet."
Drew smirked. "It's not my fault if the vegetables burn. Chloe distracted me."
"I did not," she said, nudging him playfully.
Richard leaned against the doorway, arms folded. "It smells brilliant. Better than anything I would have made."
"You mean anything you might have made," Chloe corrected, grinning.
He laughed softly. "Fair point."
They ate at the table, bowls steaming. Chloe chatted about school, Drew added little jokes, and Richard let their voices wash over him. The ordinary warmth grounded him.
When Chloe asked about his visit to Helene, he kept the details light, offering nothing that hinted at the quiet, growing warmth he felt around her.
"She's well," he said simply. "The kids are fine. A handful, but happy."
"Where did they go for their honeymoon?" Chloe asked.
"Paris first," Richard said, smiling. "Then Venice. Robert wants to take her somewhere different every year."
That made both children grin.
After dinner, Chloe went upstairs to finish homework. Richard and Drew washed up together, moving in easy silence. Drew handed him a dish towel, but hesitated before leaving the kitchen.
Later, when Richard walked into the living room, he found Drew sitting on the sofa, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
Richard sat beside him. "You seem quiet tonight."
Drew shrugged. "Just thinking."
"About school?"
He shook his head.
"About Mum?"
A small nod.
Richard waited.
Drew's voice finally emerged, soft and uncertain. "Dad… what was she like before she had us? Before everything got… complicated?"
The question landed heavily.
Richard drew in a slow breath. "She was beautiful," he said carefully. "Striking. People noticed her the second she walked into a room." He paused, sorting through memories that now felt distant, almost unreal.
"I think I was dazzled by her," he admitted. "She seemed sophisticated. Confident. Like she belonged in a world I'd never stepped into. And I thought… I was lucky she even noticed me."
Drew frowned. "But you said she made you feel… less than."
Richard gave a small, regretful smile. "I let myself believe that. I thought if I worked hard enough, if I built a good business and made something of myself, then I'd feel equal to her. I didn't understand what a healthy relationship should feel like."
Drew shifted closer, his head nearly touching Richard's shoulder.
"When it's real," Richard continued softly, "it feels easy. Natural. Like breathing. You feel safe. Seen. Like you're enough exactly as you are."
Drew stared at his hands. "Does that even exist?"
"Yes," Richard said without hesitation. "I didn't know it at your age. I wish I had. But it does exist. I see it in Robert and Isabelle. They complement each other. Neither tries to be more, or better. They just… love each other exactly as they are."
Silence settled gently between them.
Then Drew asked quietly, "Do you regret marrying her?"
"No," Richard answered immediately. "Not for a second. She gave me you and Chloe. And you two are the best parts of my life. Everything I've done, every mistake, every success… none of it means anything without you."
Drew's eyes softened, moisture gathering. He leaned his head briefly against his father's shoulder. Richard wrapped an arm around him and held him close in the soft glow of the living room.
For a moment, the past felt lighter. And the future, though still uncertain, felt gentler than it had in a long time.
They stayed like that for a while, the soft hum of the house around them, the past settling, the future opening just a little wider.