Haunted By Absence.

"I'm simply trying to make the best of our situation," Evelina said, her voice steady and controlled, though annoyance simmered beneath her composed exterior. "I think it's time we start acting like a married couple, even if this marriage is a mere formality."

Leone raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "Formality? Is that all this is to you?"

Evelina met his scrutiny head-on, her posture unwavering. "What else could it be? We were married out of obligation, not affection."

Leone snorted, shifting slightly against the headboard.

"You think a few polite tea sessions will fix this? How charmingly naive."

Evelina's calm smile didn't falter, though she felt a flicker of irritation ignite in her chest. He wants a reaction. He wants me to break. Taking a slow breath, she replied, "It's not about fixing things, Mr. Leone. It's about making the best of what we've been given. Whether you see value in that or not is your choice."

She rose gracefully, smoothing the fabric of her dress as she prepared to leave. "I'll be in my wing when you're ready. The invitation remains open, regardless of whether you accept."

Turning toward the door, Evelina walked away with measured steps, her back perfectly straight. She didn't look back, even though she could feel Leone's piercing gaze following her every movement.

Leone watched her retreat with a furrowed brow, the corners of his mouth twitching in thought. He sighed heavily, then muttered, his tone cold, "I have work to do, so no. I won't come."

Evelina halted just as her hand reached the doorknob, Her fingers lingered on the doorknob. For a brief moment, she debated turning around to respond, but instead, she released a soft exhale. 'Is he seriously this insufferable?'

Without another word, she opened the door and stepped out, the click of the latch slicing through the silence. As she walked down the hallway, her expression remained calm and composed, but her thoughts were a storm of irritation and determination. Well, that accomplished nothing. If he wants this marriage to be a battlefield, then so be it.

Back in Leone's wing, he went back into his bedroom and laid on his bed.

He let out a slow breath, his gaze fixed on the rain-speckled window. The patter of droplets against the glass filled the room, a faint, hollow rhythm that mirrored the ache in his chest.

Her words lingered in the air, soft yet heavy, like the weight of unshed tears. Making the best of our situation? He snorted, the sound low and bitter. Naive. There's no fixing this.

He rubbed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed the bandage on his head. His injury was nothing compared to the other wounds he carried—wounds no one could see.

The door creaked open, interrupting his thoughts. Camille entered first, her gloved hands clasped tightly in front of her, her gaze darting briefly to his before shifting away. Ambrose followed, his expression strained with concern.

Camille's eyes flicked over to her son, and for the briefest moment, her cold facade faltered. Seeing him in such a state, weak and vulnerable, was like a knife twisting in her chest. She quickly schooled her features, though, and kept her voice steady. "How are you feeling?" she asked, the words distant, like she was trying to keep herself from breaking.

Leone, still propped up against the headboard, didn't look at her immediately. He could feel the weight of her gaze, but he refused to meet it.

"I'm fine," Leone said, his voice flat. "It's nothing serious."

Ambrose stepped forward, a hand resting gently on his son's shoulder. "Maybe you should take a break from the office, Leone," he suggested, his tone laced with concern. "You've been working too hard."

Leone's eyes flicked to his father, sharp and firm. "I will not stop going to work, Father."

Ambrose sighed, his hand tightening for a moment. "No... Leone, rest for a day. No, a week. Please, just take it easy."

Leone's jaw tightened, and he shifted slightly, unwilling to give in. "I'm fine," he repeated, though there was a slight tremor in his voice that betrayed his frustration.

Camille stood stiffly, her gloved hands clasped tightly in front of her. She glanced toward Leone but quickly shifted her gaze to the rain-streaked window behind him.

"Listen to your father, Leone," she said, her voice clipped and cool. "Look at your head wound. Do you want everyone at the office asking questions?"

Leone's eyes narrowed as he caught the edge of her voice. You won't even look at me… His chest tightened, a flare of resentment rising up before he shoved it back down. Well, it's not like I need her to.

He turned his head slightly, catching her profile as she avoided his gaze, and for the first time, he saw just how carefully she was hiding the pain. The fleeting softness in her eyes was gone in an instant, replaced by the mask of indifference she wore so well.

"Okay, I'll stay at home," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Until my head wound heals."

Ambrose's face softened, relief flooding his features. "Good. That's the right decision."

Leone shifted again, looking at his father as he leaned in closer. "But don't tell Evelina about this," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "As the doctor said, it's nothing serious."

She doesn't need to know how weak her husband is, Leone thought bitterly. It was better this way.

'How can he request such of us? She has every right to know.'

Ambrose sighed and gave a reluctant nod, understanding the unspoken weight behind Leone's request. "I won't say anything to her, don't worry," he murmured, though there was an undercurrent of unease in his voice. He couldn't shake the feeling that something more was going on with his son, but he chose not to press. Not today.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sound the faint ticking of a distant clock. Camille finally straightened, her back stiff as she turned to face the door as she adjusted her gloves.

"You should rest, Leone," she said, her voice clipped. Her gaze flickered to his wound, and for a moment, her fingers twitched against her gloves, as though suppressing the urge to reach out.

The words carried no warmth, but the tremor in her hands betrayed what she wouldn't say.

"The office will survive without you for a few days. Don't make me repeat myself."

Leone's lips tightened, but he didn't reply.

As Camille made for the door, Ambrose lingered for a moment longer, his eyes filled with an unspoken concern. He glanced at Leone, who was trying his best to appear indifferent, but his posture, the way his body sagged under the weight of whatever invisible burden he was carrying, didn't fool Ambrose.

"You'll be fine. Just take it easy—for once." Ambrose said quietly, his voice low and steady.

Leone didn't answer right away, his gaze drifting to the floor. His father's words meant little now, though he knew they came from a place of love. He was beyond help. No he didn't want their help or their love.

"Thanks, Father," Leone muttered, his tone flat. The words felt hollow, like the space between them.

What he needed wasn't sympathy—it was for the crushing weight of everything to ease, even for a moment.

Ambrose sighed, giving him a final, searching look before turning to leave the room, following Camille. As he stepped out, he looked back one last time, his expression darkened by the helplessness he felt.

Camille paused at the threshold, smoothing a stray wrinkle in her sleeve before stepping out. She didn't glance back, but the slight hesitation in her movements hinted at unspoken words that would never leave her lips.

Ambrose hesitated for a moment, then followed her, his heart heavy with the knowledge that his family was drifting apart, no matter how hard he tried to hold them together.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Leone remained where he was, staring out the window with a hollow emptiness in his gaze.

The room felt too quiet now, too still. The weight of his thoughts pressed in on him, but he didn't have the energy to fight them. His head throbbed, but it wasn't just from the injury.

It was the crushing weight of his own isolation, the constant reminder that the people who were supposed to love him were no longer there. Not in any real way.

He shifted slightly, wincing as the dull pain in his skull flared up, but it wasn't the physical ache that caught his attention. It was the feeling of something sharp, distant—something missing—that seemed to pulse in the silence, like a phantom pain he couldn't shake.

His fingers twitched, an instinctive movement, as if reaching for something... someone. But the space around him was empty, and the only thing he felt was the cold air pressing against his skin.

Leone closed his eyes and let out a breath as his head lolled to the side. He squeezed his temples, trying to push the thoughts away, but they persisted, unwelcome. Maybe it's better this way. He wasn't sure anymore.

If I keep this up, Evelina will agree to end it after a year. Isn't that what I want? The thought settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating, like chains he couldn't break.

His fingers clenched the fabric of his trousers, a subtle tremor running through him. He didn't want to feel this. He didn't want to remember. But no matter how much he told himself to forget, her face, her touch, her absence, he could still hear her voice, soft and soothing, as clear as if she were standing right beside him.

The memory of her laugh, the way she would look at him when no one else was watching, filled the silence, and it hit him like a wave. He swallowed hard, trying to push it down, but it felt like the walls were closing in around him.

A moment later, the familiar image of her, warm and full of life, flashed behind his eyelids. He shook his head, forcing the memory away. It was pointless. She was gone, and there was no one to blame but himself.

He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the rain tapping softly against the windowpane, as though it could wash away the ache in his chest. It didn't. Nothing ever did.

"Hopeless," he murmured, his breath fogging the cold glass. Outside, the rain carved fleeting paths down the pane—paths that disappeared as quickly as they formed.