THE STAINED SHIRT
That afternoon, Brayen Mallen's executive suite on the top floor of Mallen Tower felt like a tomb of glass and steel. Expensive metallic panels and floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, yet the room remained utterly devoid of soul. Brayen sat motionless behind his desk, his focus locked onto the screen of his notebook with a cold, singular intensity.
A sharp knock echoed. "Excuse me, Sir. This is the lunch delivered by Mrs. Mallen," his private assistant announced.
"Leave it on the table," Brayen replied, his voice as frigid as marble. He didn't offer so much as a glance toward the assistant, his indifference a physical wall.
The assistant placed the lunch box down and retreated instantly.
A few moments later, the door swung open with a jarring lack of ceremony. Lian Shao burst in without permission. He was preoccupied, aggressively dabbing at his soaked shirt with a handful of tissues, but his eyes betrayed a hidden, flickering restlessness.
"Brayen, lend me a shirt. Look at this I'm drenched in coffee," Lian complained, his usual composure slightly frayed.
Brayen finally lifted his head, fixing his gaze on his disheveled friend.
"You look like a clumsy fool, Lian," Brayen's baritone voice drawled, flat and dangerously sharp from the corner of the room.
Lian let out a light, forced laugh a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Some girl collided with me in the lobby. Spilled the coffee everywhere." Lian paused, the image of the woman her haunted eyes and the vivid bruising on her wrist flickering through his mind like a disturbing frame of film. "Pretty thing, though," he added, a forced attempt to divert his own focus.
"And who exactly did you meet today? You seem... preoccupied," Brayen remarked, rising from his chair. He moved toward a sleek cabinet in the corner of the suite to retrieve a spare shirt.
"I have no idea. She was like a shadow," Lian replied. "In such a hurry, as if she were fleeing from something. She practically ran through me." Lian swallowed the rest of his sentence. He couldn't bring himself to mention the deep indigo bruises he had seen on her wrist. It was too unsettling, too dark to be shared as mere office gossip.
Brayen handed the clean shirt to Lian, his expression returning to its habitual frost. To him, the incident was nothing more than a trivial disruption.
Lian finished changing into Brayen's shirt. He glanced at Brayen, who stood rigid by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the sprawling expanse of Virelle City below.
"What are your plans for tonight, Brayen?" Lian teased, his tone light. "Wait, I forgot. You're a newlywed. Is your schedule now overflowing with romantic gestures?"
Brayen offered a thin, ghost of a smile one that never reached his eyes. "Do you truly think that matters?" he countered, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.
"Of course it matters!" Lian laughed. "Aren't you going to introduce your wife to me? I'm dying to see the woman who actually managed to get you to the altar."
Brayen didn't answer. He remained by the glass, the cold reflection of the city mirroring the hollow silence within him.
Lian, accustomed to brushing off Brayen's icy demeanor, turned his attention to the desk. "Ah, is this your lunch?" he chirped, reaching for the box brought from the mansion.
As the lid was lifted, the aroma of familiar, home-cooked food instantly filled the sterile air of the office. Lian's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise as he looked inside.
"I have to admit, your new wife seems to know your weaknesses," Lian praised, his eyes fixed on the grilled mackerel and the clear broth.
Brayen snapped his head around.
His gaze locked onto the lunch box, his eyes narrowing as a searing suspicion began to burn.
Grilled mackerel.
How does she know? The question echoed violently in his mind. Grilled mackerel was a humble, domestic dish—one that only Vallen knew how to prepare exactly the way he liked. This wasn't just food; it was a memory. How could she possibly know?
(POV BRAYEN)
I stared at the contents of the box: grilled mackerel, meticulously arranged. A humble dish. The same meal Vallen had prepared for me every single workday.
The sight of it was a physical blow, dragging me back three years into a past I had never truly left. Lian, witnessing the sudden, visceral shift in my expression, seemed to understand. He stepped closer, his hand coming to rest firmly on my shoulder.
"Let it go, Bray. The past is the past. Just enjoy the meal your wife made for you."
I reached for the spoon. My heart was still a battlefield of suspicion and rage convinced that Chiella was daring to mimic Vallen, to tread where she didn't belong. I only intended to taste it, to prove to myself that she was a poor imitation.
A single, small bite.
The moment the mackerel touched my tongue, a pure, hauntingly familiar flavor erupted in my mind. It was exact. The same seasoning, the same texture a flavor I hadn't encountered in three agonizing years. The very taste I had starved for.
Suddenly, my composure shattered. Tears fell, unbidden and hot. It wasn't a simple cry of sadness; it was the dam of a three-year trauma breaking under the weight of a perfect sensory memory. I wept because the taste was too loyal to Vallen's hands. I swallowed my tears along with the food.
"It's like a dream, Lian," I rasped, my voice thick and broken. "The taste... it's exactly like hers."
Lian remained silent. He only tightened his grip on my shoulder, a silent anchor in my storm. I didn't care about my pride or the mountains of work waiting on my desk. Bite after bite, I consumed the lunch my wife had prepared. I ate it as if it were the last remaining fragment of Vallen left in this world.
As the last traces of the meal vanished, the void Vallen had left behind surged through me once more—but this time, it felt different. For the briefest of moments, the hollowness seemed… occupied. I leaned back into the leather of my chair, trying to process the violent storm of emotions triggered by a mere piece of grilled mackerel.
The intercom on my desk shrieked, shattering the heavy silence shared between Lian and me.
I pressed the speaker without shifting my position.
"Yes?"
"Pardon me, Sir. An urgent meeting with the Prime Minister has been moved up to the next hour. The car must be ready in fifteen minutes," my assistant reported with a tone of pressed formality.
I immediately summoned my chauffeur, issuing the command to prepare for departure.
Lian, still standing beside me, let out a heavy sigh.
"You've been drowning yourself in work lately, Brayen. No… that's not it. You're simply making yourself busy, aren't you?"
I fixed him with a sharp, warning glare. "And what if I am? I only want to drown out every memory of Vallen, Lian. My mind is centered solely on her." I reaffirmed, my voice hardening. "Only by working can I momentarily forget that I've lost her forever."
"You need to turn the page, Brayen," Lian countered, his voice dropping into a serious, resonant tone. "Let Vallen find peace wherever she is. You must continue to live like a human being."
Lian rose from his seat and moved toward the door, as if this conversation had reached its natural end and he could no longer stand to witness my desperation. "Ah, I almost forgot," he said, pausing at the threshold and drawing a card from his pocket.
"This is an invitation from Juan. The grand opening of his new club."
Lian gave a curt nod. "You should come. Let's enjoy the night, alright?"
I accepted the invitation, my expression reverting to its habitual, flat mask. "Fine. I'll try to be there." Yet, even as I spoke, my mind remained tangled in the shadows of the past.
That lunch had somehow softened the jagged edges of my heart whether it was the food itself, or the phantom memory of Vallen that framed every bite, I didn't know.