Thirty days passed like a slow death.
Isabella packed her things from the penthouse gradually—a box here, a bag there. Erasing herself piece by piece from the home that had never quite felt like hers. The diamond bracelet stayed on her wrist. The pen he'd given her stayed in her bag. Small pieces of him she couldn't bear to leave behind.
At work, Liam was professional to the point of cruelty. No lingering glances. No accidental touches. No late-night knocks on her door. He treated her exactly as she'd accused him of wanting to—like a secretary. Nothing more.
But Isabella saw the cracks. The dark circles under his eyes suggesting he wasn't sleeping. The way his hand would start to reach for her before he caught himself. The times she'd turn and find him staring at her with such raw longing it stole her breath.
He was suffering. She could see it.
But he still hadn't said the words.
