Chapter Twenty-One
Luke
It’s hard to believe that a month has already passed since that phone call when Leila’s world shattered into something unrecognizable. I still remember the way her voice cracked as she asked us for space. She could barely say the words, choking on them like they burned her from the inside out.
Her mother is gone now. Suicide.
I sit here now, replaying the last few days before it all went to hell.
We’d been lost in each other, her, Ryan, Henry, and me.
Those nights were wild, raw, and intoxicating, the kind that wrap you up in pleasure so deep you forget anything else exists.
Leila seemed so happy then. Truly happy.
The smile on her face, the light in her eyes, it was as if she’d finally found some kind of peace and a break from the weight she had carried for so long now. And then... this.
I feel sick thinking about it. How could the universe be so cruel to give her a glimpse of some peace and then rip it away so brutally?
Now, all I hear is silence—the kind that swallows the air around you.
Leila hasn’t left her room since that day and hasn’t even stepped foot outside the vacation house.
It’s been a month of isolation—a month of watching her drift further away from me, from all of us.
I barely see her eat anymore. The meals I leave at her door often go untouched or nibbled at, like she’s forcing herself to acknowledge the world outside her grief.
I worry more than I can put into words. She’s fading away in that room, and I’m terrified of what’s going through her mind.
What if she’s sinking into a darkness that none of us can pull her out of?
What if she’s... what if she’s not alright?
I don’t know what to do. Every time I think about knocking on her door, asking her to let me in, I freeze. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if my presence is a reminder of those two days we were all together and the happiness that feels like a cruel joke now?
My mind races restlessly. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t just keep doing nothing. If she keeps spiraling like this, I don’t know if she’ll make it out the other side.
Ryan emerges from the kitchen, disrupting my thoughts, the rich scent of herbs and simmering broth clinging to him as he steps into the living room.
He stands across from me, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.
The air between us is thick with the aroma, surprisingly pleasant, a warmth that almost, almost, feels like comfort.
“The soup smells nice,” I say, my tone casual, though I can’t hide the trace of surprise in my voice.
It’s a revelation to me, this hidden talent of his.
A man like Ryan, with his wealth and power, I’d never imagined he had time, let alone the skill, to cook.
But in the last month, as our lives have spiraled around the black hole of Leila’s grief, I’ve come to know this side of him.
Since that day when everything shattered, Ryan has been here whenever he can, slipping away from work to check on her and be present.
And it was his idea to keep the house empty of staff, arguing that bringing in a chef or a maid would only make Leila feel more fragile and closed off.
I glance at the tray of food he’s prepared. Out of all the meals I’ve left for her, it’s Ryan’s that she manages to eat, if only in small bites. A flicker of hope stirs in me, but it’s fleeting, like everything else these days.
Ryan sighs as he sinks into the chair across from me, the worry behind his calm facade laid bare for just a moment. “Let’s hope it smells good enough to give her an appetite,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with concern.
Before I can respond, the creak of a floorboard catches my attention.
I look up and see Henry stepping out from the dim hallway that leads to Leila’s room.
He’s been there for the past hour, standing just outside her door, listening for any sign, any word from her.
We haven’t heard her voice in days, not since she stopped speaking entirely.
She’s locked herself in that room, and all we have now are these desperate attempts to reach her through the silence.
Ryan and I exchange a glance. Neither of us needs to speak, but the question is in our eyes, hanging heavy in the space between us. Did she say anything? Does she look better? Is there even the smallest sign of life in her?
Henry’s face crumples slightly as he shakes his head. His eyes drop to the floor, and the weight of his silence is unbearable.
He walks over, his shoulders slumped, every step heavy with the weight of sorrow.
He sits in the chair beside Ryan and me, his face etched with a sadness that has grown more pronounced each day.
He’s barely left the house these past weeks, only stepping away when work pulls him, but even then, his thoughts are never far from her.
From Leila. From the closed door that seems to stand between us and her broken heart.
We’ve all tried, in our own ways, to reach her, to coax her out, to get her to speak, to let us hold her, just to let us in.
But no one, not even Ryan or I, has tried as hard as Henry.
I can see it in him, the way his eyes lose focus and his brow furrows in constant worry.
This has taken its toll on all of us, but Henry…
Henry is drowning in it. Day after day, he stands outside her door, waiting for her to crack it open just wide enough to take the tray of food we leave.
And every time, that sliver of hope fades as the door closes without a word.
He listens, goodness, how he listens, hoping for the faintest sound, anything to assure him that she’s still there.
Sometimes, he speaks to her, his voice low, coaxing, and full of that quiet tenderness that makes it so much harder to bear.
“We’re here, Leila,” he tells her. “We’re not going anywhere.
” But she never responds—not a single word.
Her silence presses down on us, thickening the air and filling it with the darkness of grief. It’s suffocating.
My own attempts to reach Leila flicker through my mind, sharp and painful, each one a reminder of how powerless I’ve become.
Of the three of us, I’ve known her the longest and watched her through so many years.
I have done so steadfastly. I know her better than anyone here.
I know her strength and fire, but I also know her vulnerability.
That’s the part of herself she guards the most fiercely.
She hates being seen when she’s crying, and the cracks in her armor show.
She has always fought against it, refusing to let anyone witness the tears that betray her emotions.
Except me.
I am the only one who has seen it, though it’s never been like this.
I’ve never seen the all-encompassing silence that seems to swallow her whole.
In the past, she has let me in when the strain or anger became too much and when the weight of her life pressed down too hard.
There were moments when she would confide in me, her voice low, broken.
But at least there was something. Other times, when the strain was unbearable, she would lash out, ranting, the words pouring out of her like poison, desperate for release.
And I would listen. Always, I would listen—letting her drain herself of the storm that brewed inside her, letting her find solace in the fact that someone was there to absorb the blows.
But now, there is nothing. No rants. No confessions.
No tears I am allowed to witness. I am completely shut out.
The door between us has never felt so solid or impenetrable.
She has closed herself off, and for the first time in all these years, I can’t seem to reach her.
Not even the faintest glimmer of her pain is shared with me, and the absence of it is more crushing than anything she could have said.
I sit here, helpless, consumed by the silence she has wrapped herself in. It’s a silence that echoes louder than any words or cry for help. I’m terrified of what it means or what it’s doing to her.
“She just needs a bit more time,” Henry murmurs, though there’s no conviction left in his voice.
He’s trying to convince himself as much as he is us.
Ryan reaches out, placing a hand on Henry’s shoulder.
His expression mirrors the anguish and frustration we all feel of being so close to her yet so completely shut out.
I glance at the hallway, that dark, oppressive path leading to her door, and I think about the others who’ve tried and failed to pull her from the abyss.
Ms. Cassie, her sister, came not long ago, her belly swollen with the heaviness of pregnancy, driven by nothing but concern for Leila.
But even her gentle pleas went unanswered.
Leila wouldn’t open the door, wouldn’t even acknowledge her sister’s voice.
Cassie understood. How could she not? She’s family.
She knows the depth of pain Leila is drowning in.
But I had hoped, quietly, that her presence would stir something in Leila that would force her to come out of that room, if only for a moment.
But it didn’t. Even her sister couldn’t break through.
Mr. Augustus had come as well, his voice gentle yet insistent as he urged Leila to open the door.
Even his heartfelt attempts, however, failed to reach her.
He spoke softly, explaining how he and Ms. Cassie had both tried to call, desperate to shield her from the inevitable heartbreak.
They had wanted so much for her to hear the news from the lips of family, wrapped in the warmth of their care, rather than through the cold cruelty of the media.
In all the years I'd known him, I had never seen Mr. Augustus so weighed down by sorrow. His shoulders drooped with the heaviness of it, his words faltering. It took Ryan’s steady reassurance that Leila needed time and that she was safe with us for Mr. Augustus to find some measure of peace.
Though even then, the sadness never left his eyes.
But it was Leila’s refusal to see Ms. Danae that truly terrified me.
That shook me to my core. In all the years I’ve worked for the Kaye family, taking care of Leila and watching after her, I’ve never known her to love or trust anyone more than Danae.
She is, without question, Leila’s closest confidant and her truest friend.
If anyone could pull her back from the edge, it was Danae.
And yet, even she stood outside that door, calling softly and pleading, and still, Leila didn’t open it.
She didn’t say a word. That refusal… it scared me more than anything else.
Even now, just thinking about it makes my chest tighten with dread. If Danae can’t reach her, what hope do the rest of us have? The thought lingers, cold and unrelenting. I don’t want to lose her to this grief. But every day that passes, it feels like she slips a little further away.
“She’s going to be okay… she’s strong,” Ryan says, his voice steady yet laced with quiet determination.
His words cut through the tangle of thoughts swirling in my mind, pulling me back to the present.
His hand remains on Henry’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity, and Henry taps it lightly, acknowledging the comfort, though his nod is slow and weary.
Both men turn to me, offering smiles that are more forced than genuine—but still warm and full of hope.
They’re trying to encourage me, trying to lift me up the way they’re lifting each other.
It’s a sight I never thought I’d see. I can’t help but remember the violent intensity between these two not long ago when they tore into each other with raw fury.
It was just over a month ago, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since then.
That day, they fought with the kind of primal rage that leaves destruction in its wake: furniture splintered and blood smeared on the walls.
I watched it unfold from where I stood in front of Leila, and I could see it in their eyes.
They would’ve killed each other if she hadn’t intervened.
And yet, here they are now, side by side, offering comfort to each other and to me.
It’s strange how grief can bind people together and how love and concern for one person can transform even the fiercest rivalry into something softer, something almost tender.
The past month has revealed more than just their pain.
It’s revealed the depth of their love for her.
Ryan prepares his careful, thoughtful meals with more care than I ever thought him capable of.
And there is Henry, who spends hours at her door, waiting, hoping, and speaking softly into the silence.
Their devotion mirrors my own, and in that, we’ve found a kind of bond and a shared understanding.
We each want the same thing: to care for the woman we love, and in that, we trust each other.
“I’ll go stand by her door now,” I say, rising to my feet. The hallway stretches out before me, dim and heavy with the weight of the house’s stillness. “You should eat something,” I add, glancing at Henry as I move toward the shadows of the corridor.
“And when you need a rest, I’ll wait there too,” Ryan’s voice follows me.
I pause and turn back, a small, genuine smile forming on my face for the first time in what feels like ages.
There’s something reassuring in his words and in the way he says them without hesitation like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
In this moment, it’s clear to me that they care for her just as much as I do.
And something tilts inside me, a flicker of hope sparking to life where there was only despair.
Ryan’s right. Leila is strong. She’s been through so much, but she has a resilience few people ever see.
And she has us, three men bound together by our love for her.
We will be here, waiting, for however long it takes.
We’ll wait until she finds her way back to herself and back to her strength.
And when she does, we’ll be here to catch her.