Cole Carter never claimed to be a sentimental man.
He built his life in neat lines, contracts and schedules, motions and courtrooms, wins and losses. Everything had its box. Its label. Its distance.
Jade had been a complication.
That night—months ago now—was a mistake. A lapse. A momentary fracture in the routine he kept so tightly wound.
He told himself that more than once.
It had been late. The trial was over. He was exhausted. She had looked… different. Softer. Barefoot in the hallway with her hair down, murmuring something about tea.
He hadn't even wanted tea.
Just rest.
And yet, he had crossed the room.
The memory was still sharp. The way she'd touched his face like it meant something. The way she'd trembled under him, her eyes never leaving his. No dramatics. No seduction. Just… closeness.
Too close.
He didn't speak of it. Didn't ask questions when she didn't, either.
It was easier to pretend it had never happened. Easier to return to the way things were.
And she made no effort to stop him.
In fact, she seemed fine. Oddly fine.
Jade had once clung to the edges of his life, hovering with nervous energy, always trying too hard, asking him to come home earlier, eat dinner with her, tell her where he was going.
That Jade was gone.
Now, when he returned from work, she was usually in the sunroom, curled up with a book or humming under her breath in the kitchen. Not waiting for him. Not asking where he'd been. Not even looking up.
Sometimes she greeted him with a smile, quiet, content, and oddly detached.
It unsettled him.
Not because he wanted her attention.
But because he didn't understand what had changed.
She seemed… at peace. Glowing, even.
Like something in her life had found its place, just not him.
He'd never admit to watching her. But he noticed the small things.
How she walked barefoot on the terrace in the mornings, holding a cup of warm milk instead of coffee.
How she touched her belly absentmindedly when she thought no one was looking.
How she kept a hand over her heart when she laughed, as if protecting something delicate.
It wasn't his concern.
He reminded himself of that every night as he loosened his tie and passed her in the hallway, offering nothing more than a muttered, "Don't wait up."
And she never did.
The distance between them stretched wider with each passing day, but she no longer seemed to notice. Or mind.
There were no more accusations. No more pleading. No more nights where he found her crying in the guest room.
The silence wasn't cold anymore.
It was… warm.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
She didn't need him.
And strangely, that was more unbearable than anything she'd done before.
Cole sat in his study that evening, documents spread across his desk, but his eyes weren't on the words.
They were on the hallway outside. Where she'd just passed, humming faintly. A melody he didn't recognize. A smile playing on her lips.
She didn't even glance at him.
And maybe that was what bothered him most.