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Words seemed insignificant for what occurred between us.
We opened Pandora’s box and now had to deal with the aftermath.
Zeno whirled around and headed for his desk. I heard papers shuffling, but my eyes stayed glued to the floor. Two seconds later, he returned and grabbed my limp hand, placing a folder flat on the surface. “Everything about Armel Lancaster is compressed in that file. Since you don’t believe me, take a look for yourself.”
I closed my eyes. “Zeno, I’m sorry—”
He waved me off, his demeanour completely icy. “You may leave. Rest assured, I will not be returning to our room tonight.”
“What—”
“Go away, Darla. You made your bed, so lie in it.”
Pain at being cast aside, even though I deserved it, funneled into my core.
I left with my heart bleeding a trail of blood in its wake.
When the door to his office clicked shut, I heard a loud crash.
It sounded like both our hearts breaking.
CHAPTER 35
Zeno’s Darla
Darla
Zeno did not come to bed for the next seven days.
Every night he failed to show up was another notch in the walls of my guilty conscience.
Regret was the prominent emotion chain-sawing my mind. For the most part, I was level-headed and didn’t act impulsively on temporary emotions.
Yet I jumped the gun the second Zeno dropped a bombshell, even though I promised him I would never judge him. If I had waited just two more minutes, I would have known the truth about Armel Lancaster.
Now it felt like all the trust we’d built up was tarnished.
But my love was still there.
It grew and festooned like an infected wound under my skin. The only antidote was my husband’s touch. I missed the nights where I’d curl against him and his fingers drew invisible patterns into my skin while he read us a story in his deep voice.
God, I missed my husband.
I missed him, I missed him, I missed him.
Missing him resulted in some of the most heartfelt poetry and passages I’d ever written for my book. This love drought had me thinking of him every minute of the day and night. I sought him all over our home.
He was nowhere to be found.
Zeno became one of the ghosts in the estate, never seen or heard. But his essence—moody, stormy, grey—lingered in the hallways. Even the vivid paintings hanging on the walls looked bleak, like they’d soaked in his energy and wilted.
I gave him space to lick his wounds in peace while I too regrouped, immersing myself in St. Victoria’s renovations and finishing my story. I hoped with all my heart Zeno would read it and love it.
In the middle of the week, I invited Dacia over for afternoon tea. We went through each page in Armel Lancaster’s folder and allowed his memory to be ruined forever.
“I can’t believe this.” Dacia gulped. “I can’t believe this was Armel.”
We sat in the privacy of my room with peppermint tea and almond biscotti. I’d asked the staff to lay off the chocolate muffins otherwise I’d start to cry.
