The door closed softly. That was the worst part.
Not the argument. Not the words he had thrown like weapons he couldn't take back. Not even the look on Bella's face when he told her to leave.
It was the sound of the door.
A quiet, respectful click as if she didn't want to disturb him anymore.
Andrew stood in the middle of his penthouse long after her footsteps faded from the hallway. His jacket was still on. His tie half loosened. One hand rested against the back of the chair she had been standing beside minutes ago, fingers curled tightly, knuckles pale.
He laughed once, low, sharp, humorless. "Fine," he muttered to no one. "Go."
But the echo of his voice sounded wrong. Smaller than he was used to.
Andrew turned away, stalking toward the bar like anger could keep him upright. He poured a drink too strong, didn't measure it, didn't care. His hand shook just enough to notice, and that only pissed him off more.
He took a swallow. It burned. Good. Pain made sense. Regret didn't.
He slammed the glass down harder than necessary and leaned both hands on the counter, shoulders tense, breathing controlled. The city lights reflected in the mirrored wall, sharp lines, glass towers, and a place of his own.
The place felt wrong without her.
Too clean. Too cold. Too quiet.
Shit," he muttered.
He rubbed his face, dragging his hands down slowly, as if he could physically wipe the moment from his skin. But it stayed. Her voice. Calm. Controlled. Go home, Bella.
God.
He closed his eyes.
Why had he said it like that?
Because he'd smelled another man on her.
Because he'd imagined Luke Beaumont's hands where he had been.
Because jealousy had wrapped itself around his ribs and squeezed until anger was the only thing that could breathe.
He had wanted her to deny it harder. To say Luke meant nothing. To swear that Andrew was the only one who mattered.
Instead, she had stood there steady, unbroken, and that terrified him more than if she had fought.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, telling himself it was for the best that he needed space. That she needed to understand there were lines she shouldn't cross.
Luke. The name burned.
Andrew moved through the penthouse restlessly. The living room. The kitchen. The hallway. Everywhere he went, there were traces of her that hadn't faded yet.
He stopped in the bedroom.
The bed was perfectly made. Untouched. But when he sat on the edge, the mattress dipped in a way that reminded him too vividly of the nights she had curled against him without asking for permission. Of how easily she fit there. Like she belonged.
His jaw tightened.
He told himself again that this was necessary. That jealousy didn't look good on him. That anger was better than weakness.
But the truth pressed in anyway.
He hadn't wanted her gone.
He had wanted her to stay. To argue back. To say she wasn't going anywhere. To choose him loudly, stubbornly, without hesitation.
Instead, she had respected his anger. And that terrified him more than if she had fought.
Andrew leaned back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the city humming far below like it didn't care that something had just cracked inside him.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
His breath hitched instinctively.
He reached for it too fast, then stopped.
Not her. Just an email.
He tossed the phone back down, irritation flooding him before it dissolved into something heavier. Something closer to regret.
He picked it up again. Scrolled. Her name was still there. Unchanged. Untouched.
Bella.
He typed.
I didn't mean…
Deleted.
Typed again.
You didn't deserve that.
Deleted.
His thumb hovered uselessly over the screen as the truth settled in slowly, cruelly.
If he sent anything now, it would be too late to take back what he had already done.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight.
He pictured her stepping into the elevator, turning her head slightly to catch one last look at him. Not in sadness, not in anger. But a careful, measured distance that spoke more than words ever could.
And he hated that more than anything.
He could replay the argument in his head forever. Each word. Each pause. The way her voice didn't waver, even when she knew she'd hurt him.
He could hear it still: her calm, unwavering tone, the faint tilt of her lips as if she'd won something he didn't even realize he'd been fighting for.
Andrew ran a hand down his face, pressing against his temple.
He'd trained himself to control every situation. To bend circumstances to his will. To dominate the room. The company. His life.
But not her.
Not Bella.
She had slipped past every guard he'd ever built.
Every rule he'd made for himself.
Every promise he'd whispered in the dark about never letting someone matter this much.
And now?
Now she had left.
And he was alone with the echo of the door, the smell of her perfume still lingering faintly in the air, the space on the bed that still felt like it held her warmth.
He picked up the drink again, swirled it slowly, and stared into the amber liquid.
It reflected him, sharp cheekbones, tense shoulders, a man who had everything and nothing at once.
He took a long swallow, letting it burn down to his chest.
And he thought of all the times he had convinced himself that control was enough. That detachment was protection. Those rules were for safety.
And now he realized rules didn't matter. Detachment didn't protect him. Control was meaningless.
Because Bella had made him feel things he wasn't supposed to feel.
Things he hadn't felt in years.
He thought about the first night they had crossed lines, about the heat and the closeness and the way her fingers had memorized him before he could even memorize himself.
He thought about mornings like today. About the weight of her, warm and soft against him. About her voice, quiet and teasing, letting him feel both cherished and powerless.
And he thought about the way she could laugh at a stranger like Luke Beaumont and leave him burning with something he hadn't even known existed. Jealousy, rage, and desire, all tangled together.
He poured another drink.
One wasn't enough. Two wouldn't be. Probably not even three.
He wasn't going to dull the ache. He needed it sharp. Needed it tangible and needed it to remind him of what he couldn't have.
Andrew closed his eyes.
He saw her face. Heard her voice. Felt her hands.
He saw her walk away, calm, unshaken. Heard the door click. Felt the emptiness she left.
And for the first time in a long time, Andrew Monsiago lay awake in the silence he had created, wondering if he had just pushed away the one thing he never meant to lose.