83 - The Space She Left Behind
The iron gates of the mansion creaked open with their usual mechanical groan, but tonight, the sound felt heavier—like a final punctuation mark on something Scarlett couldn't yet name.
The cab rolled up the gravel drive, headlights sweeping across the manicured hedges and the tall marble columns framing the front door.
Scarlett sat motionless in the back seat, her fingers tangled tightly in her lap, knuckles pale.
Her lips were pressed together, trembling despite her best efforts.
The driver glanced in the rearview. "Miss? We're here."
Scarlett nodded absently, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
She stepped out, the warm night air brushing against her skin, but it did nothing to soothe the storm brewing in her chest. The mansion loomed like a cathedral of silence.
The windows stared back at her, dark and watchful, as if the house already knew what she'd seen tonight.
The same place where she'd laughed with Ethan in the kitchen a week ago, eating burnt toast at 2 a.m. She didn't move for a while.
The hallway lamp flickered slightly—the bulb overdue for a change—but its amber glow stretched just far enough to light the narrow corridor leading into her living space.
On the wall ahead, a tall, narrow mirror reflected her silhouette.
Hair mussed. Makeup slightly smeared. A stranger wearing her skin.
For a second, she had the absurd urge to apologize to the reflection for ruining its life.
She stepped out of her heels, the soft thunk of them hitting the floor echoing like punctuation in a sentence she couldn't finish.
Scarlett's eyes found her own in the mirror. There it was again—that haunted glint, the quiet storm behind her gaze.
She took a step forward. Then another.
Her fingers trembled as they rose to her lips.
They still tingled.
Heat bloomed there again, phantom-warm, as if his mouth hadn't fully left.
It hadn't been gentle. Not completely. It had startled her—pulled her under like a riptide before she even realized the shore was gone. No warning, no build-up. Just heat, breath, and the way his hand had anchored at her waist like he was afraid she'd disappear.
And now...
She blinked, swallowing hard.
And now she'd watched him kiss her—Catherine—in that office, not an hour later.
On the same damn day.
The memory carved its way into her chest like ice down her spine.
Her knees buckled. The hallway tilted, like the ground had decided it no longer trusted her to stand, and she dropped—slowly, gracelessly—to the floor, her back sliding down the wall until she sat crumpled in the hallway, coat still on, one hand pressed against her mouth as if trying to keep the sob from tearing free.
But it did. A jagged breath. A broken sound.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Why would you kiss me... and then kiss her?"
There was no answer. Just the ticking of the wall clock and the quiet ache spreading through her bones.
She sat, slowly, as if afraid the furniture would collapse beneath her grief. Her eyes scanned the garden, glazed with memory.
That kiss... it had felt like more than just heat. It was full—raw and sudden, yes—but also tender. Like he'd let his guard down. Like something inside him had cracked open just for her.
But if that were true... how could he let Catherine kiss him hours later?
Scarlett swallowed hard, wrapping her arms around herself.
Her throat burned with unshed tears. She tried to reason with it, to make sense of it.
Maybe it had been Catherine who kissed him.
She clung to the thought too tightly, like it might snap if she breathed wrong. Maybe he hadn't kissed her back.
But he hadn't pulled away either—not at first. And that silence when she saw them... the way he didn't even chase after her.
She looked down at her phone. Her thumb refreshed the screen anyway. No messages. Not even a missed call.
She remembered thinking, even back then, he never looked at Catherine like that.
She didn't cry again. Not then. Instead, she let out a quiet laugh—hollow, brittle.
"You idiot," she murmured. She wasn't sure if she meant him... or herself. She didn't know who she was talking to anymore.
This wasn't a marriage built on love. She'd known that from the beginning. But still, some na?ve part of her—some buried, hopeful part—had started to believe it could become one.
Not anymore.
She stood abruptly, her breath hitching. She couldn't stay here. Not tonight. Maybe not again.
Scarlett walked through the house, silent as a ghost, up the stairs to the bedroom she and Ethan had shared more like housemates than lovers—until recently. She didn't pack much. Just a small suitcase, and the worn denim jacket she always grabbed when her world started falling apart.
At the front door, she paused. Her eyes flicked up the grand staircase, half-expecting to see Ethan descending, calling her name. But all she heard was the slow tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
She opened the door and stepped out into the night.
This time, she didn't look back. But her fingers tightened around the suitcase handle like they wanted to.
Catherine sat in the empty studio lounge, her knees pulled up beneath her, the folder of proposal drafts lying forgotten on the floor. She was barefoot now, her heels discarded by the couch, and her blazer hung loosely around her shoulders.
The room was dim—just the blue hue from the city bleeding in through the windows. Her eyes were fixed on nothing, lost in the memory of Ethan storming out of the office, anger carved into every line of his face.
She'd kissed him.
She'd crossed that line.
But he hadn't kissed her back.
Catherine tilted her head back against the cushion, exhaling through her nose.
It was a humiliation she felt. But more than that—it was disbelief.
Ethan had once loved her with a kind of fire that could melt steel.
She knew it. She'd felt it. And somewhere, buried under all his restraint and silence. .. she was sure it was still there.
Or... she had been.
Until tonight.
Her lips still tingled from the kiss, but her heart? It felt hollow.
"I'm losing him..." she murmured to the empty room.
No. She had lost him.
But to Scarlett?
That didn't make sense.
Catherine stood and paced the room, her arms crossed tightly. No matter what she'd seen—Scarlett's flustered reactions, Ethan's protectiveness—it didn't feel like love. There was something off about them. Something... constructed.
And then she remembered. A conversation weeks ago, whispered in passing between crew members when they thought she couldn't hear.
"I still can't believe he married her. Came outta nowhere."
"Yeah, it felt more like damage control than romance, if you ask me."
A flicker of clarity sparked behind Catherine's eyes.
Maybe it was damage control. Her mind began rearranging memories the way a strategist rearranges chess pieces.
She walked over to her bag and pulled out her tablet, fingers moving quickly. She didn't have access to much—yet—but she knew people. People who owed her favors. People who liked to talk.
She tapped out a message to an old friend in PR.
"I need background on Scarlett Landon and Ethan Blackwood. Marriage license, media coverage, any scandal pre-dating the wedding. Confidential. Urgent."
She hit send. The message whooshed away, quiet and harmless-sounding — like a knife sliding back into silk.
As she lowered the tablet, a slow, calculating smile curved her lips.
Maybe Scarlett had stolen a moment. Maybe even Ethan's attention.
But if this wasn't real—if there was something fake, or contractual, or strategic about their marriage—then Catherine still had a chance.
She just had to uncover the truth.
And when she did?
She'd make damn sure Scarlett was nowhere near Ethan again.
The mansion stood draped in silence as Ethan pulled into the driveway. The familiar crunch of gravel beneath the tires did nothing to steady the storm inside him. The porch light glowed softly over the front steps, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold that curled around his chest.
He turned off the engine, but didn't move.
Just sat there.
One hand still on the steering wheel, the other resting limply in his lap.
His head leaned back against the headrest, eyes glazed as he stared through the windshield—at nothing.
The stillness outside was almost mocking.
After everything that had happened... the house looked unchanged.
Unbothered. As if it hadn't just become the epicenter of everything falling apart.
He dragged in a breath, slow and uneven. Scarlett's face flashed in his mind—the way she'd looked at him earlier. Wide-eyed. Wounded. Like she'd been standing in the middle of a downpour and hadn't seen it coming.
He kissed her—and then he'd turned away. Left her hanging with a thousand unspoken things between them. And now? Now he had to walk into this house like a man deserving to share its air.
He finally pushed open the car door and stepped out. The night was quiet. Too quiet. The sky hung heavy, clouds thick with the kind of darkness that felt alive. Each step toward the house felt heavier, slower, like wading through fog.
The door creaked as it opened. He didn't bother to call out.
He didn't need to.
He already knew.
She wasn't here. His chest tightened before his mind caught up.
The silence inside was oppressive. Not peaceful. Not gentle. Just... empty.
Ethan moved through the living room, eyes scanning the familiar.
The throw blanket was folded neatly on the couch.
Her mug wasn't on the side table. No soft hum of music playing from the speaker she always left on low.
But her scent—faint lavender and vanilla—still lingered in the air like a whisper. Like a ghost.
"Scarlett?" he called out, his voice low, uncertain. Already expecting nothing.
Nothing answered.
He checked the kitchen. The bedroom. Her studio nook. Each space spotless, untouched, untouched by her. Even her sketchpad was gone. That was when the silence stopped feeling temporary.
The ache settled in slowly. Deep. Heavy.
By the time he reached the study, he felt hollowed out.
He dropped into the chair like the air had left his lungs. One hand came up to rub the bridge of his nose, the other dragging tiredly across his jaw. The room spun quietly around him—just the soft ticking of the clock, and the suffocating weight of regret.
His phone was still in his pocket. He pulled it out without thinking. Maybe... maybe she'd left a note. Something. A sign that this wasn't the beginning of the end.
His screen lit up.
Ethan, I won't come home tonight.
He read it again. Then again. Like the words might change if he stared hard enough.
That was it.
He stared at it, unblinking. His thumb hovered over the screen, then dropped away.
The words were simple. Neat. So quiet, and yet... they hit him harder than any scream ever could.
She didn't say where. Or when she'd return. Or if she would at all.
But he knew.
She was hurt. Confused. Probably angry.
Because of him. The thought didn't comfort him. It terrified him.
Because he kissed her without asking, without warning—just to silence the chaos in his own head. And then he'd brushed past her like it didn't mean anything. He didn't stop to think if it left a bruise on her heart.
But what he didn't know—what he hadn't even begun to understand—was why she truly walked out.
Not because of his kiss.
But because she'd seen another.
His breath hitched. "Shit."
He stood suddenly, pacing a few steps before running both hands through his hair. The room blurred around him, colors dulling beneath the panic crawling up his throat.
He dragged his phone up again, jaw clenched, and hit call.
It rang once.
Twice.
No answer.
He hung up. Waited. Redialed.
Still nothing.
He pressed his thumb to his lips, where Catherine's kiss still burned—not with desire, but with shame. He remembered the way Scarlett had looked at him on set. How her breath had caught when their lips met. How she hadn't pulled away.
And now?
Now she is gone.
"She left because I kissed her without asking," he muttered aloud, like saying it made it real. "Like a damn fool trying to mark territory that was never mine to claim."
But deep down, he knew that wasn't the full story.
It wasn't just the kiss.
It was what came after. What she saw. What she felt. The silence he offered her in place of an explanation.
His thoughts flicked to Andrian—how close he'd been to Scarlett that night at the market. The way she'd smiled again, slowly, around him. The way Andrian had looked at her. Calm. Steady.
Ethan's hands balled into fists.
"No," he breathed. "She wouldn't go to him."
But the way his stomach twisted said he wasn't convinced.
He wasn't so sure.
He leaned against the doorway, exhaling hard, the weight of the day pressing against him from all sides. His voice cracked in the quiet:
"Scarlett... where are you?"
The only answer was the tick of the clock, steady and indifferent.