The first thing Raiyan noticed was the empty driveway.
He slowed without thinking, eyes going straight to the spot where her car always sat.
Nothing.
His brain tried to fix it fast.
Early errand. Different car. Driver. Anything normal.
The gates closed behind him.
Still nothing.
He got out and walked in.
The house felt wrong the moment he crossed the threshold. Not quiet. Not calm. Just… wrong. Too still, as if someone had been here and left in a hurry without making noise.
Aunt Mirrium was in the kitchen. She looked up.
Her eyes went to his face first. Then his hands. Then back to his face.
"You didn't come home last night."
Raiyan loosened his tie. "I was busy."
She nodded and went back to what she was doing.
He saw the coffee cup.
Cold. Untouched. Sitting in the same place it always sat in the mornings.
Zoya never left coffee half-done.
Two cups had become a routine without anyone calling it that. Quiet kitchen. No conversation needed. Just proof they were still there.
His gaze stayed on the cup too long.
Aunt Mirrium noticed.
"She was up early," she said. "Didn't sleep much."
His chest tightened.
"When did she go out?"
A pause.
"Early."
Raiyan nodded once like it meant nothing.
He walked past her before she could add anything else.
He went to his study.
Not because he needed it.
Because upstairs was where the answers were.
His study door clicked shut behind him.
Everything was exactly where he left it.
Except the teabags on his desk.
Chamomile.
Peppermint.
His throat went tight.
She left those there when she thought he'd forget to rest. Not with a speech. Not with a fight. Just placed where he would see them.
Raiyan stood still.
Zoya didn't do careless. Zoya didn't do random.
She was precise. Everything aligned. Everything put away. Chargers coiled. Cabinets shut. Lights off. Door locks checked twice.
It used to annoy him.
Then it started to feel… better. Like the house stopped fighting him.
Now the quiet felt deliberate.
He left the study.
His feet took him upstairs anyway.
Her door was closed.
He opened it.
The room was empty.
Not messy. Not rushed.
Empty on purpose.
Bed made tight. Corners sharp. Pillow centered. Chair by the window clear. Wardrobe closed. No charger. No bottle. No hair clip. No stray anything.
She hadn't forgotten.
She'd packed.
His eyes went to the wall.
The dent was still there.
His stomach turned.
He walked farther in.
On the ottoman sat the gown.
Folded neatly.
The seam was torn.
He recognized it immediately. His gift. His first attempt at doing something right after the wedding.
Beside it was the necklace.
Custom. Made for her. Chosen stone by stone.
He'd fastened it around her neck himself.
He remembered the weight of it in his fingers. The warmth of her skin. The way she'd looked at him in the mirror like she didn't want to admit she liked it.
He stared at the necklace until his eyes burned.
The house had been different with her here.
She used to wait with dinner when he came home late. Not dramatic. Just food ready. A look that said you're not skipping meals on my watch.
She used to make him tea and sit with him while he talked, so he wouldn't reach for pills. She never told him not to take them. She just stayed long enough that he didn't.
At night, by the pool, she'd sit with him with her mug in both hands. Sometimes she talked. Sometimes she didn't. But she stayed. Long enough that the day stopped chasing him.
He hadn't asked for any of it.
That was why it mattered.
And then the night happened.
The raised voice.
The questions that sounded like accusations.
His temper.
Her going still.
That expression in her eyes when she stopped trying to explain herself.
He looked at the torn gown again.
Then at the necklace.
He didn't want to breathe. He did anyway.
This wasn't her being dramatic.
This was her deciding she wouldn't stay where she didn't feel safe.
His chest went tight in a familiar way.
He hated that part.
Because he knew that feeling.
He'd been too young the first time he learned someone could leave and never explain it. One day there was a mother. The next day there was a house full of adults speaking gently and avoiding his eyes.
No answer he could use.
No goodbye that made sense.
Just absence.
That was what his body remembered.
Not anger.
Absence.
Raiyan stood in her empty room and didn't move.
Then he left.
The office was already running when he arrived.
Screens on. Phones ringing. People moving like his life hadn't cracked open.
Evan was outside his office with a tablet, mid-call. He looked up and stopped.
"Morning," Evan said, ending the call. "You're late."
"Push the nine," Raiyan said.
"Already done."
Raiyan's hand paused on the door handle.
Evan hadn't waited to be asked.
Inside, Raiyan tossed his jacket onto a chair and went straight to the window.
He didn't sit.
Evan shut the door.
"You want the briefing now or—"
"No."
Evan set the tablet down.
"You okay?"
Raiyan adjusted a cufflink. Then adjusted it again. Pointless. He needed something to do with his hands.
"I'm fine."
Evan didn't react to the lie.
"You didn't sleep."
"That's not your concern."
Evan nodded once, then said it anyway.
"She's gone, isn't she?"
Raiyan turned slowly. "What makes you think that?"
Evan hesitated for half a second.
"Because you're here," he said. "And you look like someone who walked into an empty house."
Silence stretched.
Raiyan looked away first. "I don't need commentary."
"I know," Evan said. "I need to know if you're about to blow up the board meeting or if I should keep covering."
Raiyan exhaled through his nose. "Cover."
Evan nodded. "Already am."
He reached the door, then paused.
"For what it's worth," Evan said, still not looking back, "you don't breathe around anyone. You breathe around her."
He left.
Raiyan stayed at the window, staring down at the city.
He tried to do the normal thing.
He couldn't.
Because the house wasn't quiet anymore.
It was empty.
And he'd done that.