Chapter 242
CMWMBB 44
VENUS
I got back into the car and sat longer than I meant to.
The engine idled. Dashboard lights glowed softly, indifferent. My hands rested on the wheel, fingers curled, knuckles pale. For a moment, I let myself feel the imprint of Colton’s arms-the echo of being held without expectation, without strategy.
Then I inhaled.
And let it go.
The drive away from the docks was quieter than the drive there. The city thinned as I moved through it, buildings giving way to long stretches of road that asked nothing. I drove on muscle memory, my mind replaying everything he’d said, everything he hadn’t.
We’re not giving up.
I didn’t know if that was hope or stubbornness anymore.
By the time I reached the house, the sky had darkened into that bruised blue before night fully settles. The gates opened smoothly. Everything about this place worked the way it was supposed to, even as the people inside it didn’t.
I parked farther from the entrance than usual.
I needed the walk.
Each step across the gravel felt deliberate, grounding. My heels clicked softly against stone, a rhythm I could hold onto. I smoothed my hair before reaching the door, wiped my face one last time with the back of my hand, and stepped inside.
The house was quiet.
Not empty, just hushed, like it was holding its breath.
I heard voices down the hall. Aaron’s voice, low and steady. George’s softer, rising and falling with the seriousness only children summon. Sabine’s laughter punctuated it all, sudden and bright.
I stopped short of the doorway.
Aaron was on the floor with them, his back against the couch, Sabine sprawled across his lap, George leaning against his shoulder with a book open between them. Aaron’s finger traced the lines as George read aloud, correcting him patiently, never rushing.
This was the version of him the world never saw.
This was the version Andrea wanted diminished.
Something twisted painfully in my chest.
I stepped back before they noticed.
1/5
Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into the bedroom.
I closed the door quietly and leaned my forehead against it, breathing in the familiar scent-clean linen, faint cologne, something warm and lived-in that still felt like us, despite everything.
I dropped the folder onto the dresser.
It landed with a soft thud.
I stared at it for a long time.
The edges were crisp. Unassuming. Inside lived the blueprint for a public fracture-one I could already imagine unfolding. The interview. The headlines. The carefully worded sympathy that would cut deeper than any accusation.
I sat on the edge of the bed, pressing my palms into the mattress.
This was the moment Andrea thought would break me.
A knock at the door.
Soft.
“Aaron,” I said, without turning.
“I thought you might be back,” he replied, voice neutral, careful. “The kids are settled. I can stay with them if you need time p>
There it was again.
Space.
Like we hadn’t argued before I left.
“I’m fine,” I said.
A pause.
“Okay,” he said simply. “I’ll be downstairs p>
He didn’t ask where I’d been.
He didn’t ask why I’d left.
That restraint felt heavier than interrogation.
When his footsteps faded, I sat back down, shoulders slumping.
I pressed my fists into my eyes until I saw stars.
This is temporary, I told myself.
This is controlled.
This is for Iris.
2/5
I picked up the folder, opened it again-not with dread this time, but focus. I read every line slowly, committing each one to memory. I noted what was missing as much as what was included. The assumptions. The gaps. The places where truth could bend without breaking.
The morning of the interview arrived faster than I wanted.
No thunder. No dread-heavy sunrise. Just light creeping through the curtains as it always did, pale and indifferent, touching the edges of a life that had learned to perform even while bleeding.
I woke before the alarm.
Aaron was already gone.
The space beside me was cool, the sheets pulled smooth. He hadn’t slept there long. Or maybe not at all. I lay still, listening, cataloguing the house the way I’d learned to: distant footsteps, a door closing softly, the muted clink of a mug in the kitchen.
Normal sounds.
Weaponized normalcy.
I dressed slowly. No rush. No nerves I allowed myself to name. I chose something simple-neutral colors, soft fabric, nothing sharp, nothing deliberate. The kind of outfit that whispered exhaustion without screaming instability.
Andrea’s notes echoed in my head.
Sympathetic. Tired. Honest-but not angry.
I tied my hair back loosely, then let it fall.
Downstairs, Aaron stood at the counter, jacket already on, phone in hand. He looked up when I entered, eyes flicking over me in a single, unreadable sweep.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning p>
George sat at the table, spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said gently. “Just for a bit p>
Aaron’s gaze sharpened-not accusing, just alert. “With security p>
“Yes p>
A beat.
“Okay p>
That was it.
3/5
No follow-up. No why. No when. He didn’t tell me to be careful. Didn’t offer to drive me. Didn’t ask if I needed anything.
Distance, honored to the letter.
I knelt, kissed George’s forehead, Sabine’s cheek. Sabine giggled, sticky fingers tangling in my hair.
“Love you,” I murmured.
“I love you too,” George said.
Aaron watched from the counter.
He didn’t say it.
I left before that absence could undo me.
The studio sat quiet behind its glass façade, unassuming in a way that felt intentional. No crowds. No banners. Just a discreet entrance, a keypad, and two security men who didn’t smile as they swept me in.
“Standard protocol,” one said, already moving ahead.
I nodded.
They checked corners, doors, ceilings. Ran scanners along walls. Listened through headsets with expressions trained into neutrality. It took longer than necessary-long enough for my nerves to tighten, for the weight of what I was about to do to press harder against my ribs.
Finally, one turned to me. “All clear, Mrs. Sinclair p>
I hesitated only a second.
“Wait outside,” I said.
Both men looked at me at once.
“Ma’am p>
“I’ll be right inside,” I added, voice level. “You can see the entrance from the hall p>
A pause. Then a nod.
They stepped back, the door closing softly behind me.
The studio smelled faintly of polish and electronics. Cool air brushed my skin. The lights overhead were already on, bright but forgiving, casting everything in a careful glow.
I took two steps forward.
That was when she appeared.
Mid-thirties, maybe. Smart blazer. Hair pulled back neatly. Clipboard tucked under one arm. She smiled-not overly warm, not distant. Professional.
10:154/5
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Ruby Walker
Ruby Walker is a rising voice in the world of romance and spicy fiction. With a gift for weaving deep emotions, sizzling chemistry, and unexpected twists, her stories are a blend of passion and drama that captivate readers from start to finish. Ruby’s writing style is bold and irresistible—perfect for those who crave intense, addictive love stories.