The morning after the gala felt strangely weightless — the kind of weightlessness that came after a storm, when everything inside had already cracked and all that was left was the numb quiet.
Willow hadn't spoken much since waking. Victor had seen the exhaustion the night before — the collapse she tried to hide — and he hadn't questioned her choice to stay a couple of days in L.A. He let her exist at her own pace. They explored when she had energy, stayed in when she didn't, ordered room service in silence, watched city lights through floor-to-ceiling windows without pretending conversation was necessary.
She had switched off her phone completely.
Not because she wanted peace — but because she wasn't ready to face the lack of messages… or the presence of them.
By the end of the second evening, over a quiet dinner with the city glittering beneath them, she finally said:
"I think… we should fly out in the morning."
Victor didn't argue. Didn't even blink.
