The air on the terrace was suddenly cold. The vibrant, living space I had envisioned in my sketches felt like a childish fantasy, the colors bleaching out under the harsh light of his retreat. Run it by Julian. Of course. A budget. An approval process. Another transaction.
I spent the rest of the day in a state of agitated suspension. Every sound the hum of the elevator, a distant door closing made my heart leap into my throat. I half-expected him to emerge from his office, to continue that charged, unfinished moment. But the door remained shut, a solid slab of wood enforcing the boundary he had so clearly redrawn.
When he finally emerged for dinner, he was a different man. The man from the terrace. the one with the intense, questioning gaze was gone. In his place was the CEO, the strategist. He was polite, distant, his conversation limited to logistical questions about the terrace project, all framed in the language of assets and value-addition.
The meal was a silent, excruciating echo of our first dinner. The tension was no longer one of fiery confrontation, but of something far more unnerving: a deliberate, calculated avoidance.
As Mariela cleared the dessert plates, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made the announcement, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather.
"I have to leave for Tokyo in the morning. A business acquisition. It will require my full attention for the next several days."
The words landed like stones in the quiet room. Tokyo. Several days. He was running. He was creating an ocean of distance between us because a few inches on a terrace had felt too dangerous.
"I see," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "When do you return?"
"The timeline is fluid. A week, perhaps longer. Julian will be your point of contact for anything you need." He stood, pushing his chair back. "I have an early flight. I'll be leaving before you're awake. Goodnight, Elara."
He didn't wait for a response. He walked away, his posture rigid, and disappeared down the hall toward his bedroom. Not his office. His bedroom. The door clicked shut with a sound of finality.
I sat alone at the massive table, the silence of the penthouse pressing in on me. He was fleeing. The man who commanded boardrooms and billion-dollar deals was fleeing from the unresolved tension with his contracted wife. The knowledge should have given me a sense of power. Instead, it left me with a hollow, aching confusion.
The next morning, the penthouse felt emptier than ever. There was no sign of him beyond a faint trace of his cologne lingering near the elevator. Mariela confirmed his departure with a sympathetic nod.
"He said you have a project for the terrace, Madam?" she asked, her kindness a stark contrast to the void he had left behind.
"Yes," I said, my voice sounding small. "I suppose I do."
I threw myself into the work with a frantic energy. I called nurseries, met with landscape designers, sourced reclaimed wood for planters. It was a rebellion, a way to claim a piece of this sterile fortress as my own. But with every decision, every sketch, I was hyper-aware of his absence. I found myself wondering what he would think of a particular plant, if he would approve of the stone for the pathway.
The space I was trying to bring to life was a monument to the moment he had walked away from. And with each passing day, the memory of that almost-kiss, instead of fading, grew sharper, more potent, taunting me in the profound silence he had left behind.