Ross, of course, did as he promised. A week later, he arranged the eting between the estranged couple—Ashley and Cyril.
It was quiet when they arrived, a subdued tension hanging in the air like a storm that had already passed but left everything broken in its wake.
Cyril looked good at first glance.
He was still dressed in designer clothes, his shoes polished, his watch expensive, and his hair carefully styled.
From afar, he might've looked like the sa man who used to walk into boardrooms with confidence and command respect without speaking a word.
But up close, it was clear that sothing was missing. The light in his eyes had dulled. His once-proud shoulders slumped slightly.
There was stubble on his face, several days old, and it didn't suit him—he had always been ticulous, clean-cut.
Now, he looked like a man weighed down by the weight of choices he couldn't take back.
Despite still having access to his millions, it was painfully obvious: Cyril had lost sothing far more valuable.
He had lost his woman. He had lost Ashley.
And in the corner of the room, like a silent ghost pulling strings from the shadows, Ross sat—calm, detached, almost unreadable.
He was, in many ways, the reason all of this had happened. If fate were a writer, it clearly had a wicked sense of irony.
Ashley was the first to speak. She didn't shout. She didn't cry. She simply asked a single question.
"Why?"
Just one word. One syllable. But it was laced with everything she felt—anger, confusion, pain, betrayal.
Cyril's lips parted, and he tried to speak. The truth was right there, teetering on the edge of his tongue.
But no sound ca out. He tried again, a little more desperately, but sothing within him refused to let the words form.
His mouth moved, but his voice failed him.
Panicking, he grabbed a piece of paper from the table and a pen, trying to write down the truth.
His hand shook.
The pen barely touched the paper. He then reached for his phone, trying to type it out in a ssage—but his fingers felt heavy, almost paralyzed, like they belonged to soone else.
His mind scread at his body to move, to act, to do sothing, but nothing worked.
It beca painfully clear—Cyril was no longer in full control of himself.
Finally, with what little strength he had left, he forced out the only words he was seemingly allowed to say.
"I'm sorry, Ashley. It was all my fault."
And with that, he broke. His voice cracked, and he began to cry—not with the quiet, dignified tears of a proud man, but the raw, ssy sobs of soone who had finally accepted the depth of his failure.
He covered his face with his hands, ashad, his body trembling with grief.
Ashley didn't move. She didn't say a word. She simply watched him, her expression unreadable.
Cyril, in the throes of his regret, could only replay the mont in his mind when his daughter had introduced Ross to the family.
At the ti, Ross had been charming, polite—but ordinary. Cyril hadn't paid him much attention.
He'd dismissed him as a phase, a fleeting crush, soone who didn't belong in their world.
But oh, how wrong he'd been.
If only he had seen what Ross truly was—what he was capable of.
If only he had treated him with the respect he apparently deserved. Maybe things would've turned out differently.
Maybe Ashley wouldn't be sitting across from him now, her heart broken and her trust shattered.
Looking at Ross now, Cyril felt sothing strange rise in his chest. It wasn't just guilt—it was awe.
Fear. Helpless admiration.
If he had known then what he knew now, he might have dropped to his knees and addressed Ross like he was so kind of god.
Like Ross was his daddy or sothing.
But it was too late. The past couldn't be bought—not even with all the money in the world.
And no apology, no wealth, no desperate plea could undo what had already been done.
Cyril was a man with everything… and yet, sohow, he'd ended up with nothing.
"That's all you can say? That you're sorry?" Ashley's voice cracked. "What the fuck were you thinking, Cyril?!"
It was the first ti she had ever cursed at him in all their years together.
Once, she might have thought herself too composed, too restrained for that kind of emotional outburst.
But now?
Now she felt like everything she'd believed about their marriage, about the man she married, had crumbled beneath her feet.
Cyril recoiled like he'd been struck. His eyes, usually calm and calculating, were glassy and unfocused.
He opened his mouth, desperation flickering in his expression as he tried to respond.
"I… ammmm…" he stamred, the sound escaping his lips weak and broken.
It was pathetic. And heartbreaking.
This wasn't the Cyril she had known. The Cyril she married had been a man who commanded attention, who negotiated business deals with sharp intellect and disarming charm.
But now he stood in front of her like a prisoner locked inside his own body, unable to speak, unable to explain, unable to fight for what was left of their relationship.
"Why are you stuttering?" Ashley's voice softened for a brief second, confusion overtaking her fury.
"This… this isn't like you at all, Cyril."
She took a step closer, eyes searching his face for so kind of answer, so glimr of recognition—of the man he used to be.
But there was nothing there. Just a hollow, broken shell who looked like her husband but couldn't even lift his voice to defend himself.
"Say sothing. Please," she whispered.
But the silence stretched.
And with each second that passed, the anger returned, stronger than before.
She shook her head slowly, tears threatening to fall but never quite spilling over.
"This is useless," she muttered bitterly.
With that, she turned and walked out, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. She didn't look back.
There was no point. The man she had loved was gone—and what remained couldn't even tell her why.
By the ti she arrived ho, she was drained. Her heart felt heavy, her limbs tired.
The day had taken more out of her than she expected.
She had gone there wanting closure—sothing, anything to help her make sense of everything that had fallen apart.
But she left with more questions than answers.
And a growing suspicion that sothing far darker was at play.
She stepped into the apartnt and paused.
The aroma hit her imdiately—warm, rich, and inviting.
A mix of sautéed garlic, rosemary, butter, and sothing slightly sweet.
It slled like comfort. Like safety. Like ho.
She blinked, almost in disbelief. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until that very mont.
Ross was in the kitchen, as effortlessly put together as ever.
He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and an apron that looked like it belonged on the cover of so upscale cooking magazine.
He moved with practiced ease, flipping sothing in a pan while humming to himself like he didn't have a care in the world.
When he noticed her, he turned with that familiar, confident smile that never seed to waver.
"So," he said, spoon in hand, "how did the eting go?"
Ashley just stood there for a mont, staring at him.
Everything about him was so controlled, so calm—so opposite from the broken ss she had just left behind. It was disorienting. Infuriating. Comforting. All at once.
She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing ca out.
Ross tilted his head, watching her with curious amusent. "That bad, huh?"
Ashley finally moved, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.
She didn't answer, not right away.
She felt like she was still carrying the weight of that eting on her shoulders, and now she was standing in the middle of a world that seed completely untouched by it.
Ross returned to the stove, casually stirring a simring sauce.
"Well," he continued, "I hope you didn't expect too much. Cyril's been… unstable for a while now."
Ashley narrowed her eyes. "What did you do to him?"
Ross chuckled lightly, not even bothering to pretend he didn't know what she ant.
"I didn't do anything. He did it to himself. All I ever did was give him the opportunity to show who he really was."
"You broke him."
"No," Ross said, turning toward her now, his eyes cool and sharp. "He was already broken. I just stopped pretending otherwise."
There was sothing terrifying about the way Ross said it—calm, asured, like he was simply stating a fact. And maybe he was. Maybe that's what made it worse.
Ashley looked away, her throat tightening. She didn't want to admit it, but part of her felt… safer here. With Ross. Even after everything.
And that scared her more than anything else.
What was most interesting, though, was how the night ended.
After the al was finished and the plates were cleared, a different kind of hunger would soon be satisfied.
User Comments
0 comments from readers