68 - Building Ice wall
Scarlett moved through the house like a ghost, completing her evening chores without intention—her body in motion, her mind elsewhere.
The soft hum of the dishwasher, the rhythmic swish of a damp cloth over the marble kitchen counter, the click of a light switch—all of it blurred together, mechanical.
Her hands worked, but her eyes drifted constantly to the door, to the hallway, to the silent clock above the mantle ticking away the hours.
Still no Ethan.
She stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs, listening.
The house answered with silence. The silence had begun to feel.
.. cruel. Mocking. Every corner of their mansion—sleek, modern, beautiful—felt too clean.
Too curated. Like a hotel no one lived in.
She glanced at her phone again. Nothing.
No text. No call.
Her shoulders sagged.
The kitchen light buzzed faintly overhead, and suddenly even that felt loud.
Too loud.
By the time she reached their bedroom, her limbs were heavy with fatigue she hadn’t realized she was carrying.
She slipped under the covers without bothering to change out of her silk robe, the faint scent of lavender clinging to her skin from a forgotten candle burning earlier that evening.
But even as her eyelids fluttered closed, her ears stayed alert—straining for the click of the front door, the low murmur of his voice, the familiar creak of polished stairs under his weight.
Nothing came.
Sleep tugged at her, slow and reluctant, and she finally gave in.
It was well past midnight when Ethan arrived.
The heavy mahogany door eased open without a creak—he knew how to handle it.
He slipped inside like someone trespassing in his own life, the darkness wrapping around him like a secret he didn’t want to confront.
His suit jacket hung limply off one arm, tie loosened and askew.
The last hints of cologne were long gone, replaced by a faint scent of city grit and tired sweat.
His eyes were bloodshot, shoulders bowed—not with defeat, exactly, but with a weariness that came from fighting something too long unnamed.
He didn’t flick on a single light.
He moved through the house by memory, every step familiar: the cool sweep of marble, the muted creak on the fourth stair, the hallway narrowing into darkness.
He paused briefly outside the bedroom door, fingers brushing the knob.
A breath.
Then he slipped inside.
The room was still, the only sound Scarlett’s slow, measured breathing.
Moonlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, illuminating the soft curve of her shoulder above the blankets.
Her hair spilled like liquid copper across the pillow.
Ethan didn’t speak. He didn’t climb in beside her.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, hunched forward, hands laced between his knees.
Something flickered across his face—regret, maybe.
Or shame.
Then he lay back, as far from her as the bed allowed, arms crossed over his chest like a man bracing for impact.
Sleep came slow and punishing.
Morning arrived with warmth and light that felt almost accusatory.
The sun streamed in through the tall windows, casting golden stripes across the duvet.
Scarlett stirred slowly, the weight of sleep clinging to her limbs.
One hand reached across the bed without thought, instinct pulling her toward the space she hoped would be filled.
But her fingers met only cool sheets.
She sat up abruptly, heart hitching.
Her eyes darted around the room—pillows untouched, blanket smooth.
Her pulse quickened, not with panic, but with a hollow, dull ache she knew too well.
It sat behind her ribs like an old bruise, pressed anew.
“Ethan?” Her voice was hushed, hopeful.
No answer.
She pushed the covers aside, the soft cotton dragging reluctantly across her skin, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
The hardwood was cool against her bare feet, grounding.
The house felt vast and empty, the silence ringing like a held breath.
She moved quickly, almost frantically now.
Down the hallway, her silk nightgown fluttered against her legs as she checked each room—study, guest room, even the gym.
Each one was untouched. Cold.
The living room looked exactly as it had last night—immaculate.
Not a throw pillow out of place, not a coffee cup or open laptop in sight.
The crystal vase on the table caught the sunlight, scattering rainbow fragments across the floor like shards of something once whole.
No Ethan.
Scarlett stood frozen in the doorway, arms wrapped tight around herself.
Her heart thumped dully. She wasn’t surprised.
Not really. She just hated that she'd hoped.
Back in the bedroom, she moved slower. Her gestures were mechanical—pulling open the closet, brushing her fingertips along hangers, tugging a crisp blouse and fitted skirt into her hands. She caught her reflection in the vanity mirror and paused.
She looked... tired. Not in the physical sense—she’d slept, after all.
But there was something missing behind her eyes, something she couldn't quite define. Her skin looked pale, too even. Her concealer sat like armor under her lashes.
With a sigh, she gathered her hair into a tight, sleek ponytail. No stray strands. No softness.
Just control.
She dressed quickly, sliding into her heels as though climbing into a role she no longer wanted to audition for. Her hand brushed against the bedside table where Ethan’s watch usually sat.
Empty.
Scarlett stared at the space for a long time.
Her breath caught, shallow.
Then she turned away.
Scarlett stepped out, her heels sharp against the polished floor, her silhouette crisp and composed in a fitted charcoal skirt and silk blouse.
A few coworkers offered cheerful greetings as they passed.
“Morning, Scarlett.”
“Hey, great presentation yesterday.”
She gave them faint nods, lips curving in automatic response, but her mind wasn’t in the room.
Her gaze was fixed ahead, on a single door at the far end of the corridor—Ethan’s office.
The frosted glass bore his name in sleek lettering, but even through the opaque surface, she imagined the shape of him—tall, controlled, unreachable.
She didn’t stop at her own office. Her pace was purposeful but not rushed.
Each step echoed with the weight of a restless night and everything she hadn’t said when she had the chance.
Her hand lifted to knock.
Then hesitated.
Just a second.
Just long enough to question what she was walking into.
But she knocked anyway, two quick raps on the polished mahogany.
No response.
Her fingers curled tighter around the door handle, heart tapping louder than her knuckles had.
She pushed the door open.
“Etha—”
She froze.
The room was quiet, but the silence was thick.
Ethan stood behind his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, his frame bent over a spread of blueprints, one hand bracing the table.
But he wasn’t alone.
Catherine was there.
Her red lips curved in the kind of smile that didn’t belong in a workplace.
She stood close—too close—leaning in with casual intimacy, her manicured nails pointing to a corner of the paper, her laugh barely audible but unmistakably sweet.
Her perfume—something expensive and sharp—hung like smoke in the air.
Scarlett’s throat tightened. The scent hit her before the reality did.
Neither of them moved away when the door opened.
Catherine’s eyes flicked up first. She straightened, smile vanishing into a mask of professional cool, but not before Scarlett saw it—the glint behind her eyes, like a cat stretching after cornering a bird.
Triumphant. Pleased.
Scarlett’s gaze dropped—Catherine’s fingers brushed Ethan’s as they reached for the same document.
It wasn’t necessary. It was deliberate. The contact lingered.
Ethan looked up next.
His expression didn’t soften.
His mouth set in a hard line, jaw tightening.
His brow furrowed, the same way it did when an intern fumbled a detail, or a supplier delivered late.
His voice was flat, sharp.
“What do you want?”
Four words.
No warmth. Not even curiosity.
Scarlett’s stomach clenched.
For a beat, she couldn’t speak.
Her mouth opened, but the words stuck.
Her cheeks flushed, though from anger or humiliation, she wasn’t sure.
She straightened instinctively, shoulders pulled back, chin lifting—not in defiance, but in defense.
“Nothing,” she said softly.
The word barely left her lips.
She didn’t wait for a response. She turned, every step backward calculated—controlled, when everything inside her threatened to collapse.
She closed the door with deliberate care, resisting the urge to slam it shut.
The sound of the latch clicking into place felt louder than it should have.
She walked down the corridor without looking back, her stride steady, every movement precise.
But she felt it—Catherine’s eyes on her, that smirk coiling behind perfect lipstick like a whispered insult.
Poor Scarlett. Always reaching for something that’s already been taken.
She didn’t say it. She didn’t have to.
Scarlett kept walking.
But something in her had already begun to unravel.
Scarlett closed her office door behind her with more care than necessary.
The gentle click echoed in the quiet room.
She stood for a moment, taking in the familiar surroundings—the clean lines of her drafting table, the clutter of fabric swatches pinned to corkboards, pencil sketches curling at the corners, and a mannequin draped in half-finished silk.
Normally, this was her sanctuary. Today, it felt too still.
She sank into her chair, exhaling slowly as her fingers pressed against her temples.
Her nails, still neatly manicured from last week’s benefit gala, dug lightly into her scalp, grounding her.
But her thoughts were anywhere but present.
Ethan. Catherine. That too-close whisper.
The smirk she hadn’t imagined.
The intercom buzzed, a shrill, abrupt crack in her mental fog.
“Scarlett?” came Linda’s voice, warm and melodic, tinted with just enough cheer to feel intentional.
“Can you come to my office for a minute?”
Scarlett swallowed and forced a polite “On my way,” before she stood, smoothing down her blouse and slipping on her heels as if armor could be assembled piece by piece.
Linda’s office was, as always, a whirlwind of organized chaos.
The walls were a patchwork of pinned magazine tears, color theory charts, and polaroids of runway shows.
A rainbow of fabric bolts leaned against bookshelves.
Potted succulents and leafy monstera plants crowded the windowsill, drinking in the morning light.
The scent of fresh eucalyptus mingled with something faintly citrusy.
Linda herself sat at her desk, sleeves rolled to the elbow, bangles clinking as she flipped through a portfolio.
A bright, patterned scarf was woven through her dark braids, and her lipstick—a bold burnt orange—matched her energy: fearless.
She didn’t look up right away. “So,” she said, pretending to study a page.
“The supplier from Marseilles just confirmed—”
Scarlett heard the words, but they felt distant, like radio static.
Her eyes drifted past Linda’s head, to a hanging fabric sample of jacquard silk, swaying slightly from a breeze that wasn’t there.
Linda stopped mid-sentence. Her gaze sharpened, assessing Scarlett with quiet precision.
“Sit,” she said, already knowing. She gestured to the velvet armchair across from her desk—the one clients usually took.
Scarlett sat down slowly, hands folded tightly in her lap.
She forced a faint smile, but it felt brittle.
Linda leaned in, chin propped on her fist. “Scarlett. What happened? And please, don’t insult my intelligence with a ‘nothing.’ You’ve got that look like you just swallowed glass.
”
Scarlett’s fingers twisted around each other.
“It’s nothing,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“Really.”
“Mmm.” Linda’s eyebrows rose, unimpressed.
“You say ‘really,’ but I can see your pulse from here.”
Scarlett tried a laugh, but it died before it reached her eyes.
Linda watched her another beat, then abruptly pushed back from her desk and clapped her hands once.
“Okay. Emergency fashion therapy it is. I booked us an appointment at the fabric house anyway—perfect timing. Let’s go.
”
Scarlett blinked. “Now?”
“Now.” Linda was already grabbing her bag, eyes dancing with a kind of irreverent fire.
“Fresh air, pretty textiles, and a chance to pretend men don’t exist. Come on, you’ll feel better.
”
A reluctant smile curved Scarlett’s lips.
“You always drag me out when I’m falling apart.
”
“And you always thank me after,” Linda winked. “Eventually.”
The textile warehouse stretched across the block like a cathedral of color.
From the outside, it was nondescript—corrugated metal and soot-streaked bricks.
But inside? Magic.
Towering shelves brimmed with fabrics from every corner of the globe.
Rolls of velvet, silk, brocade, chiffon.
Shades of ochre and rose, emerald and ash, cobalt and obsidian.
Every step released new textures beneath their fingers—smooth, rough, feathery, plush.
Scarlett’s breath hitched faintly as she walked deeper in.
Something inside her loosened. Her fingertips drifted across a bolt of brushed cashmere, then lingered on a stretch of iridescent organza.
Her trained eyes examined weave and density, her body finally syncing with her mind in the rhythm she knew best: design.
She and Linda moved like dancers who’d performed this routine countless times.
They wordlessly compared textures, held swatches to the light, conferred in murmurs.
Then Scarlett stopped.
“This one,” she said, her voice firmer now.
She held up a bolt of midnight-blue silk.
It shimmered subtly, catching threads of violet when the light hit it just right.
“For the centerpiece. It’s bold, but restrained.
It says something.”
Linda ran her fingers across it and gave a satisfied nod.
“Elegant but innovative. Like you.”
Scarlett tucked the compliment away like a note in her pocket.
They left with arms full and ideas swirling.
Outside, the city felt softer somehow. The tension in Scarlett’s shoulders had faded, even if the ache in her chest hadn’t fully gone.
The bistro was tucked between two high-rises, a little Parisian refuge wedged into Manhattan’s chaos.
It was all black-and-white tiles, potted herbs on tables, and classical guitar drifting from hidden speakers.
The waitstaff greeted them like old friends and led them to their usual corner booth without asking.
Scarlett peeled off her blazer and sank into the seat with a sigh.
“You seem better,” Linda said after a few minutes, glancing up over the rim of her sparkling water.
Scarlett nodded, pushing an arugula leaf around her plate.
“I am. I think I needed the distraction.”
Linda chewed slowly, then set down her fork, her tone softening.
“Can I ask something?”
Scarlett glanced at her, wary.
Linda hesitated—just enough to give her the option of escape.
“Is there... something going on between you and Ethan?”
The name hit the table like a dropped stone.
Scarlett froze.
Her fork hovered midair, then slowly returned to her plate.
Her gaze dropped to the tablecloth—tiny navy hexagons tessellated in a dizzying pattern.
She traced one with her nail.
“No,” she said quietly.
The lie barely passed her lips before it turned bitter.
Linda didn’t push. She simply reached across the table and gently took Scarlett’s hand in hers.
Her grip was warm, grounding.
“Everything will be alright, Scarlett,” she said.
Not a platitude. Not an empty promise.
A quiet truth she was willing to hold for both of them, even if Scarlett couldn’t believe it yet.
Scarlett blinked once, then again. She didn’t speak, just nodded.
Sometimes, that was enough.