Chapter 47: The Call That Changed Everything
The Edinburgh office was quiet, the kind of hush that settled over business districts in the late afternoon when meetings had ended and most employees had gone home. Ethan sat behind his desk, papers spread before him, but his mind was elsewhere.
On her.
Always on her.
The painting. The way she'd looked at the brushes. The book of poetry he'd given her—Little Siren's words that had saved him, now resting in her hands. She'd been different since that evening. Softer. More present.
The telephone rang.
He answered automatically. "Leo."
"Ethan." His mother's voice, crisp and familiar. "I'm glad I caught you."
He leaned back in his chair, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "Mother. Is something wrong?"
"Wrong? No. But I've been thinking." A pause, the kind Celeste used when she was about to say something important. "How is Serene?"
Ethan's grip tightened on the receiver. "She's fine. Adjusting."
"Adjusting." The word was heavy with skepticism. "And how are you two... adjusting together?"
He knew what she was asking. He'd known from the moment she said Serene's name.
"We're managing."
"Managing." Another pause. "Ethan, I'm going to ask you something directly, and I want an honest answer."
He didn't respond. He never did when she used that tone.
"Are you two sharing a bed?"
The question hung in the air like a verdict.
"Mother—"
"Don't 'Mother' me. Are you or aren't you?"
Ethan closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No. We're not."
The silence on the other end was deafening.
"Ethan Leo." His mother's voice had dropped, become something sharper. "She is your wife. Your wife. Why are you keeping your distance? Do you want Clive Marcer to come and take her away from you?"
His hand tightened on the receiver until his knuckles went white.
"Because he will," Celeste continued, relentless. "That man is still out there. Still waiting. Still hoping. And you—you're sleeping on a couch while your wife lies alone in your bed."
"It's complicated—"
"It's simple." She cut him off with the precision of a surgeon. "You love her. You've always loved her. You made terrible choices that hurt her deeply, but she's still your wife. She's still here. And if you don't act—if you don't fight for her—you will lose her. Permanently. To Clive or to someone else or simply to the cold distance you're creating between you."
Ethan rose from his chair, moving to the window that overlooked Edinburgh's grey streets. "I can't force her, Mother. I can't—"
"You're not listening." Celeste's voice softened slightly, but only slightly. "I'm not telling you to force anything. I'm telling you to try. To show her that you want her. That you're willing to fight for this marriage, for her, for whatever future you might still have together."
A pause. When she spoke again, her voice was different—quieter, more intimate.
"Sometimes love is physical, Ethan. Not just the act itself, but the closeness. The touch. The knowledge that someone wants to be near you, wants to hold you, wants to wake up beside you." She paused. "You're a grown man. I shouldn't have to explain this."
He said nothing. Could say nothing.
"And I want good news," Celeste continued, her tone shifting back toward business. "Soon. You're the eldest son of the Leo family. You have responsibilities—to your name, to your future, and yes, to me. I would like a grandchild to spoil in my old age. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
A grandchild.
Children.
A family with Serene.
The thought was so overwhelming, so impossible, so desperately desired that Ethan couldn't breathe for a moment.
"Mother—"
"Think about it," she said. "That's all I ask. Just think about what you're risking by keeping your distance. And then decide if a cold, empty bed is really what you want for the rest of your life."
The line went dead.
Ethan stood at the window, the receiver still pressed to his ear, staring out at the grey city without seeing any of it.
He couldn't lose her.
Not to Clive.
Not to anyone.
Not again.
God, please. Don't let me lose her again.
---
Across the city, in the warm quiet of the apartment, the telephone rang.
Serene looked up from her painting—a corner of Edinburgh emerging on canvas, soft greys and whites capturing the winter light. The phone rang again. Insistent.
She set down her brush and crossed to it, her heart beating slightly faster than it should. No one ever called here. No one but—
She picked up the receiver.
Silence.
Then: "Serene."
Her world stopped.
Clive's voice. Warm. Familiar. Devastating.
She clutched the receiver with both hands, pressing it to her ear as if she could somehow climb through the line and into his presence. Tears burned her eyes—sudden, overwhelming, impossible to stop.
She opened her mouth.
Tried to speak.
Tried to say his name.
Tried to force sound through a throat that had been silent for years.
"Cl—" A whisper. Barely audible. The first sound she'd made since the fall.
But it was enough.
"Serene." His voice cracked. "You tried. You actually tried."
She nodded against the receiver, tears streaming down her face, her body shaking with silent sobs.
"I have to tell you something." His voice was heavy now, weighted with things she didn't want to hear. "Something you won't want to hear."
She gripped the receiver tighter, as if she could physically hold onto him through the line.
"I'm leaving." The words fell like stones. "Moving to America. There's an opportunity there—a business I can't refuse. I've been offered a position that could change everything for me."
No. The word formed in her mind, desperate and silent.
"Serene, listen to me." His voice was gentle now, heartbreakingly gentle. "You're married. You're Ethan Leo's wife. And I... I can't keep waiting. Can't keep hoping. Can't keep my life on hold for something that might never happen."
She wanted to scream. Wanted to throw the phone across the room. Wanted to run through the streets until she found him, until she could make him understand—
"Don't wait for me." His voice broke on the words. "Don't hope for me to come back. I can't be that for you anymore. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She shook her head frantically, tears blinding her, her throat working desperately to form words that wouldn't come.
"Be happy, Serene. Find a way to be happy. With him or without him—just... be happy."
A pause. The longest of her life.
"Goodbye, my princess."
The line went dead.
---
Serene stood frozen, the receiver still pressed to her ear, listening to silence.
He was gone.
Clive was gone.
He'd given up. Moved on. Left her behind.
Just like everyone else.
Just like always.
She lowered the receiver slowly, staring at it, waiting for it to ring again, for him to come back, for this to be some terrible mistake.
It didn't ring.
She set it down carefully, precisely, and walked to the window.
The city spread before her, grey and indifferent. Snow fell softly, dusting the rooftops, the streets, the world she was trapped in. Somewhere out there, Clive was preparing to leave. To start a new life. To forget her.
She pressed her forehead to the cold glass and finally let herself feel it.
Loss.
Grief.
The death of the last hope she'd been clinging to.
He was gone.
Her Clive.
Her love.
Her future.
Gone.
---
The tears came—silent, endless, washing away everything she'd been holding onto. She slid down the wall, landing on the floor, her body shaking with sobs that made no sound.
She didn't hear the door open.
Didn't hear footsteps crossing the room.
Didn't know anyone was there until warm arms wrapped around her, pulling her against a solid chest.
Ethan.
He held her without speaking, without asking questions, without trying to fix anything. He just held her, his arms steady and warm, his presence a solid anchor in the storm of her grief.
She clung to him.
Had nothing else left to cling to.
And in the quiet of the Edinburgh apartment, with snow falling outside and Clive's goodbye still echoing in her mind, Serene let herself be held by the man who had trapped her here.
The only one left.
The only one who remained.
---
She didn't tell him about the call.
She didn't have to.
He'd found her like this—broken, weeping, destroyed—and he'd understood enough.
"I'm here," he murmured against her hair. "I'm here, Serene. I'm not going anywhere."
She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were red, swollen, devastated. Her hands shook as she signed: He's gone. Clive. He's leaving. He told me not to wait.
Ethan read the words, his jaw tightening. Something flickered in his green eyes—relief? guilt? pity?—before he pulled her close again.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
She didn't know if he was sorry for Clive, sorry for her pain, or sorry for everything he'd done to bring them to this moment.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
She stayed in his arms as the light faded outside, as the city grew dark, as the weight of loss settled over her like a shroud.
Clive was gone.
Hope was gone.
And all that remained was this man—this complicated, broken, impossible man—and the strange, terrible future stretching before them.
---