Chapter 73: The Silent Decades, I
The storm gathered behind the glass like a memory trying to break through.
Rain stitched itself against the tall windows of the Upper East Side estate, thin streaks of silver cascading down glass so clean it nearly shimmered. Outside, the trees bent in the wind, their shadows casting skeletal hands across the marble floor. Inside, the study was dim—lit only by the fire's falling breath and a pair of amber lamps that haloed the room in quiet grief.
Lucien stood beside the heart.
His silhouette was rigid, sharp against the firelight. One hand rested on the mantel, the other curled loosely at his side. His suit was pristine. Not a thread out of place. His expression was unreadable—crafted from restraint.
Across the room, Isabelle stood with her back to the door, framed by the stormlight that filtered through the tall arched window behind her. Her dress was evening-black, her posture tense but composed, her spine alone holding her together.
"I'm not asking you to stop," she said, voice quiet but cracking at the edges. "I never have. I just want to know if you remember why you started."
Lucien didn't respond.
"I watch you disappear into your work every day," she continued. "You talk to no one. You eat less. You sleep less. You're barely even here anymore."
Still nothing. Just the soft crackle of the fire.
"I've stayed with you through all of it, Lucien. Through things no one would believe. And I'm still here. But I need to know if there's anything left of the man I chose. Or if he's gone too."
Lucien turned.