Ives’s POV
Have you ever walked into your own house and immediately knew something’s off? Like, deep in your gut, off. No loud crash. No smoke. Just a feeling. Still. Cold. Wrong. That was me last night. The board dinner had dragged on. Toasts, back-pats, hollow praise from men who smelled like cigar smoke and aftershave. I nodded, smiled, played my part like I always do. But the second the front door shut behind me, the silence hit like a freight train.
“Mr. Mercer,” James, the house staff, stepped forward, hesitant. “She… didn’t come back. Not last night. Not today either.” I didn’t ask where she went. Didn’t ask when she left. I just nodded and walked past him, already knowing what I was about to see. Kitchen first.
The air still carried the faint trace of her vanilla-sugar coffee pods. Her mug, the chipped yellow one she refused to replace, sat next to the sink, untouched. Lipstick still stamped the rim like a ghost’s fingerprint.
The bedroom? Sheets folded, pillows untouched, no trace of her perfume, gone. My stomach clenched. I moved to her drawer in the hallway, empty. Cleared out like she never existed here at all. And then I saw the folder. Or rather, didn’t. The one she used to keep the contract in. Color-coded tabs, annotated in margins, always annoyingly perfect, gone. Like her. I stood there for a full minute, maybe longer. Just… standing. Breathing in that quiet like it was smoke, burning down everything.
This morning, I got to Mercer House before anyone else. Even the cleaning crew looked confused. I didn’t care. I stepped off the elevator and made a beeline to her desk. It was bare. No open notebook with a pen stuck in the spiral. No sarcastic post-its. No obnoxious Red Bull can she always left half-finished. Just a blank space. I turned to Dana, who looked like she’d been waiting for me.
“She didn’t come in?” I asked, even though I already knew.
Dana shook her head gently. “No call. No message.” I nodded once, jaw locked.
She hesitated. “Do you want me to try and reach-”
“No.” Her lips pressed together, wisely saying nothing else.
I walked into my office and shut the door. The click echoed louder than it should've. And then I sat down. Across from me: the chair. Her chair. She used to curl up in it like it was hers. Argued with me in it. Rolled her eyes when I said something rude. Tossed her ponytail when she won an argument. Laughed, God, she laughed, in that chair. Now it looked like part of the furniture. Lifeless. Cold. Just like the space she left behind. I leaned back, stared at the ceiling, and said it out loud.
“I’m sorry.”
My voice cracked, and I hated it. I never crack. But inside, it wasn’t just once. I kept repeating it, over and over again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Because I knew the truth, she didn’t leave because of a headline, or because Ava made a scene, or even because I admitted the sex.
She left because I made her believe she meant nothing. And the worst part? I let her. I’d watched her crumble in front of me. Eyes full of betrayal, hands shaking, and I stood there. Cold, controlled, like she wasn’t the only person who ever made this place feel like home.
Because the second she said I loved you, I froze. I panicked. I clung to the one thing I understood: survival. And hurting her was easier than accepting I might need her back. I swallowed hard, pressing my fingers to my temple like that would somehow push the memory out. I could’ve run after her, I could’ve explained, could’ve told her the truth. That Ava showing up wasn’t what ruined us. I did.
I opened my phone, her name still pinned at the top. Marla. I hovered over it. Called? Texted? Begged? My thumb trembled. Then I locked the screen. No. Not yet. If she came back, it had to be her choice. I’d already taken everything else from her. I looked back at her chair. And for the first time in years, I felt truly alone.