Lucas
I woke that morning and reached for her out of habit. My arm landed on nothing. The silk sheets were empty, cold. Ella was gone.
For a second, I just lay there, confused. Last night after my shower, I'd been too wired from work to sleep right away. I didn't want to keep her up with my tossing and turning, so I went to my study to deal with emails first. By the time exhaustion finally hit and I came to bed, she was already out. I remembered pulling her into my arms, her small body curling up against me like something seeking shelter.
Now the space beside me was empty. The sheets were cold to the touch.
When had she left?
I stared at the ceiling. An uneasy knot twisted in my stomach.
She must've gotten up early to make breakfast.
Ever since we married, whenever I was home, Ella would cook oatmeal from scratch. She'd throw in ginger and other weird stuff. My chronic gastritis—she'd fixed it bit by bit with those morning bowls.
I threw back the covers and headed for the dining room.
But when I pushed through the door, all I found was the standard English breakfast the cook had laid out. Boring. Impersonal.
I sat down and chewed mechanically, something hollow settling in my chest.
It's just oatmeal. Get over it.
But I couldn't convince myself.
It wasn't just breakfast. It was her time. Her attention. Since the wedding, she hadn't just cured my gastritis—she'd helped my insomnia too. As long as I held her close and listened to her slow, steady breathing, I could finally sleep.
Coming home to the manor. Seeing Ella. Everything settling into place—those three things had become inseparable in my mind. Her presence was as natural as air.
I'd never considered that I might wake up and not see her for over an hour. It made me deeply uneasy.
I went looking for her. Mrs. Hughes was arranging flowers in the living room.
"Good morning, sir." She smiled and nodded. Nothing unusual in her expression.
"Where's Ella?"
"Madam is in the glass conservatory, sir. She's helping Mr. Rockefeller with his physical therapy."
Right. I should've guessed. She spent most of her time with Grandfather. I shouldn't be jealous. I just hadn't expected her to start cutting breakfast from her schedule, too.
I strode toward the back garden and pushed open the conservatory door. Color everywhere—flowers in full bloom, heavy fragrance, sunlight pouring through the glass dome overhead, making the dust motes look like flecks of gold.
I heard Ella's voice.
"Try to relax..."
"Mr. Rockefeller, can you lift this leg for me..."
I softened my footsteps and followed her voice.
Past a massive monstera leaf, through a row of trimmed birds of paradise, I spotted her.
Ella was kneeling on the floor, patiently guiding Grandfather through leg extensions. She wore the simplest beige sweater, jeans hugging her soft curves, hair pulled back in a ponytail with a few loose strands brushing her cheeks in the morning breeze.
From where I stood, she looked unreal. The light wrapped around her like a hazy filter, made her look clean and almost transparent, like a carefully tended white camellia.
Gentle. Pure. Without a single flaw.
