Mia's POV
The silence in the apartment wasn't peaceful—it was suffocating. Every tick of the wall clock felt like it dragged her heartbeat backwards.
She had spent the entire morning packing quietly, her movements efficient, mechanical. The kitchen towels. Her skincare products from the guest bathroom. Eric's extra set of pajamas—folded and tucked gently into a box she wasn't even sure she'd ever open again.
The penthouse, once a quiet sanctuary filled with innocent giggles and her quiet humming in the kitchen, now echoed cold. And yet… she didn't cry.
She couldn't afford to.
She stared out of the window, arms folded over her chest, watching clouds shift across the Chloria skyline—no. New York skyline. She wasn't in that fantasy world anymore. She couldn't pretend.
Then the front door opened.
Her heart didn't skip. Her hands didn't twitch. She knew it was him. Ryan.
He walked in with the kind of calm power only he could carry. Dressed in black slacks and a slate-gray dress shirt rolled at the sleeves, he paused when their eyes met.
"Mia," he said softly, voice unreadable.
"Ryan," she replied, then looked back out the window.
Seconds passed like lifetimes.
He stepped closer, eyes flickering to the neatly packed boxes. "You're really leaving."
"You agreed with it," she said, not cruelly. Just stating a fact.
He nodded. "Doesn't mean I like it."
Her eyes burned, but she wouldn't give him that.
"I told you I wasn't a one-woman man," he continued, jaw tightening. "But the truth is... I didn't think you'd matter."
Ouch. That stung.
"And now?" she asked quietly.
"I still don't know what to do with you," he admitted. "Or with how I feel."
She finally turned to him, about to speak, when—
A woman's voice rang through the penthouse.
"Ryan, baby, are you coming back to bed?"
Mia froze.
The voice—light, sensual, familiar—Diane.
She didn't need to see her face. The sound was enough. It was like a knife dipped in honey, slicing clean.
Ryan stiffened. His mouth parted, like he wanted to explain—but what could he say?
Mia gave a small nod, her expression unreadable. "Don't worry. I was just leaving."
She picked up the last box.
"Mia—"
"Don't," she whispered, her voice tight. "Just don't."
She walked past him with quiet dignity, heels clicking against the marble floor. Her chest was tight, her throat aching.
But she didn't look back.
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