"Don't ask him tonight."
Maria's voice was low, almost a whisper, as she stopped me at the foot of the stairs. Her hand hovered near my arm, unsure whether to touch me or not.
"Why?" I asked.
She searched my face, then looked away. "Because some answers don't come back the same once you hear them."
I smiled faintly. "They never do."
I continued up the stairs before she could say more. The house felt heavier tonight, as if every wall had learned to hold its breath. Daniel's study light was on. I paused outside the door, listening to the soft scratch of a pen, the muted hum of a call ending.
When I stepped inside, he didn't look up.
"I thought you were asleep," he said.
"I was," I replied. "Then I woke up."
He nodded, as if that explained everything. Papers were spread across the desk, neat but not orderly. His jacket lay draped over the chair. His tie was gone.
"You've been busy," I said.
He capped the pen and leaned back. "Always."
I waited. Silence had become our language. We spoke it fluently now.
"I went to the guest room," I said finally.
His eyes flickered, just once. "Why?"
"Because someone told me to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He stood, walked past me, and poured himself a glass of water. He drank it slowly, as if time were something he could control.
"There's nothing in that room," he said.
"There was," I replied. "It's gone now."
He set the glass down. "Isabella—"
"I found the envelope," I said. "And then I didn't."
His shoulders stiffened. "You shouldn't go through my things."
"You shouldn't give me reasons to."
We stood there, close enough to touch, far enough to feel miles apart. His eyes searched mine, not for guilt, but for how much I knew.
"This house," I said quietly, "used to speak to me. Now it whispers."
He exhaled. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?"
He didn't answer.
That night, he didn't come to bed.
I lay awake, listening to the clock tick, to the faint sounds of movement somewhere below. Love used to fill the quiet between us. Now the quiet filled everything else.
In the morning, Daniel had already left.
Linia sat at the breakfast counter again, her hair neatly pulled back, her posture perfect. She smiled when she saw me.
"Good morning, madam."
"Good morning."
She hesitated. "Did you sleep well?"
I studied her face. Young. Composed. Careful. "Did you?"
"Yes."
We ate in silence. When she stood to clear the plates, I noticed a faint red mark on her wrist, as if from gripping something too tightly.
"Are you hurt?" I asked.
She glanced down quickly. "No. Just clumsy."
I nodded. Another word added to the list of things we would not say.
Later, I found Daniel's phone charger plugged in beside the couch. His phone wasn't there. It was a small thing. Too small to matter. Except it did.
That afternoon, I tried to remember when love had stopped needing words. There was a time when Daniel and I could sit in silence and feel full. Back then, quiet meant safety. It meant understanding.
Now it meant avoidance.
I dressed carefully for dinner, choosing a dress he once loved. When he finally came home, I was waiting.
"You look nice," he said.
"Sit with me," I replied.
He hesitated, then did.
We ate slowly. I watched his hands, the way they moved with purpose, the way they avoided mine.
"Do you still love me?" I asked.
He looked up sharply. "Of course."
The answer came too fast.
"When was the last time you said it without being asked?" I pressed.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. "I show it."
"You hide a lot," I said. "It's hard to tell the difference."
Silence stretched. He reached for his glass, missed slightly, corrected himself.
"You've been distant," he said.
"So have you."
He looked at me then, really looked, as if noticing something for the first time. "We've been under pressure."
"Pressure doesn't erase people," I said. "It reveals them."
He stood. "I can't do this tonight."
"Then when?"
He didn't answer. He grabbed his jacket and left.
The door closed behind him with a sound that felt final.
I didn't cry. Tears felt too easy. Instead, I went to the guest room.
The bed was made too neatly. The drawers were empty. The closet smelled faintly of a different soap. On the nightstand, I found a folded piece of paper tucked beneath the lamp.
It wasn't addressed to me.
It was a clinic appointment slip. Tomorrow morning. Daniel's name. A private wing.
My hands shook as I folded it back into place.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Linia stood in the doorway.
"I didn't know you'd be here," she said.
"I live here," I replied.
She swallowed. "I was just… returning something."
"What?"
She held out a small object. Daniel's cufflink. Gold. Engraved.
"He dropped it," she said.
"When?"
Her eyes flickered. "Earlier."
"Earlier today?" I asked.
She nodded.
I took the cufflink, its cool weight heavy in my palm.
"Thank you," I said.
She lingered, then spoke softly. "Madam… sometimes love doesn't need words."
I looked at her. "Sometimes it does."
She nodded, as if accepting a lesson, then turned and walked away.
That night, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Words are not the problem.
Another message followed.
Unknown Number: What happens when love chooses silence?
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding.
From the window, I saw headlights pull into the driveway.
Daniel was home.
And he wasn't alone.