Chapter 394: We Need to Talk
"Still up?" Charles looked away, his voice flat.
"Saw your light on. Thought you could use a snack." Emily approached the desk and set down the tray. As she leaned forward, the neckline of her nightgown gaped open, revealing an expanse of bare skin.
Charles's Adam's apple bobbed. His fingers tightened involuntarily.
"Thanks." His voice came out rough.
Emily didn't leave. Instead, she circled behind the desk, positioning herself beside him, glancing at the documents spread before him. "Still working? Didn't the doctor tell you to rest?"
Her breath ghosted past his ear, carrying that sweet, familiar scent that belonged only to her. Charles's body went rigid. He could feel how close she was—close enough that one movement would be all it took to pull her into his arms.
"Some urgent files." He forced himself to stare at the computer screen, refusing to look at her.
Emily pressed her advantage. She reached out, fingers landing gently on his shoulder. "You're so tense. Let me help you relax."
Her touch was soft yet firm, working the knotted muscles at his neck and shoulders. Charles could hear his blood roaring in his ears, every nerve screaming for more.
"You don't need to—" He tried to refuse, but his voice came out hoarse.
Emily's voice dropped lower, taking on a coaxing lilt. "Don't move. You used to love when I did this."
The words were a key turning in a lock, releasing a flood of memories. Charles remembered countless nights when she'd stood behind him just like this, massaging his tired shoulders. Back then, he would pull her into his lap, kiss her, and then...
He couldn't let himself think about it.
Charles shot to his feet so abruptly he nearly knocked over the chair.
"Enough." His voice came out cold, edged with obvious rejection.
Emily's hand hung suspended in midair. She studied his tense profile, hurt and stubborn defiance rising in her chest in equal measure.
She moved around to face him, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. "Charles, we need to talk."
"There's nothing to discuss." Charles turned to leave, but Emily caught his arm.
"Why? Why the sudden divorce? Why are you suddenly so cold to me? If you really are tired of this, why are you still so good to the kids? Why agree to come home and put on this act with me?"
The rapid-fire questions stabbed into Charles like knives.
He looked at her reddened eyes, at the tears pooling there, and nearly lost control—nearly pulled her close and told her everything.
But he couldn't.
The Rivera family's threat remained. The Campbell family feud was unresolved. And his body... who knew how long it would hold out.
He had to push her away.
Charles forced himself to speak in the coldest tone he could muster. "Because of responsibility. Responsibility to the children. As for you..."
He paused, deliberately avoiding her gaze. "Emily, stop with these pointless gestures. What we had—it's over."
Emily shook her head, tears finally spilling over. "I don't believe you. Look me in the eye and say it. Tell me you don't love me anymore."
Charles's heart felt like it was being crushed in an invisible fist, the pain nearly suffocating.
He looked at her—this woman he loved to the marrow of his bones—looked at the hope and vulnerability in her eyes, and nearly blurted out "I love you."
But in the end, he only turned his face away, his voice arctic. "I don't love you anymore."
The words were ice picks driven straight into Emily's heart.
She released his arm and stepped back, all color draining from her face.
"Fine... fine... I understand."
She turned and stumbled out of the study, her nightgown's hem tracing a desolate arc through the air.
Charles stood rooted in place, watching her retreating figure until the study door closed. Only then did he double over with a violent coughing fit.
This time, he didn't cover his mouth—let the blood drip onto the expensive carpet.
The pain.
His chest felt like it was tearing apart.
Emily returned to the master bedroom, shut the door, and slowly slid down against it until she was sitting on the floor.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, buried her face in the crook of her elbow, and wept silently.
He'd said it so decisively, so coldly.
"I don't love you anymore."
That sentence shattered every last fantasy, every shred of hope.
So it really was just her foolish delusion. He really was simply tired of her.
Meanwhile, in the study, Charles eventually recovered enough to walk to the window, staring out at the thick darkness.
He knew that after tonight, Emily wouldn't try to get close to him again.
He'd succeeded.
So why did his heart feel so utterly hollow?
He left the study, not returning to the master bedroom but heading to a guest room at the other end of the hall instead.
He pushed open the door. The guest room was cold and empty—no trace of her scent, no warmth of her presence.
Charles sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out his cigarette case, lighting one. The crimson ember glowed and dimmed in the darkness, illuminating his pale face.
He remembered how Emily had looked just now in that nightgown—so beautiful, so tempting, like a rose blooming in the night.
It had taken every ounce of self-control not to pull her into his arms.
But now, in this frigid guest room, he allowed himself to briefly drown in memory.
The memory of her warmth in his embrace, her whispers in his ear, every smile, every frown.
Then he stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, lay down on this unfamiliar bed, and closed his eyes.
That night, the master bedroom and guest room—separated by one hallway—felt like they were worlds apart.
Neither of them slept.
After her tears dried, Emily wiped her face, her expression gradually hardening with resolve.
If he truly didn't love her anymore, she wouldn't keep clinging.
But the divorce papers... she still wouldn't sign them. Not yet.
She would get to the bottom of the feud between the Campbell family and the Windsor family. She owed herself that much.
And Charles, staring into the darkness, repeated silently over and over: I'm sorry, Emily. I'm sorry.
But sorry couldn't bring back her smile, couldn't restore what they'd had.
It could only buy her a safe future.
That was enough.
He told himself that.
But the ache in his chest told him otherwise—it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
The next morning, Emily woke early.
Standing before the mirror, she studied her puffy eyes, applying ice packs for a long while before carefully applying makeup that barely concealed the evidence of last night.
She changed into a crisp white suit, swept her hair into an elegant chignon, and when she emerged from the bedroom in heels, she'd fully resumed the composed, controlled persona of Obscura Fashion's CEO.
Last night's vulnerability and tears were buried deep.
When she came downstairs, Charles was already at the dining table having breakfast. He wore charcoal loungewear, his face still pale but his energy seemingly better than yesterday.
Seeing Emily, he glanced up. His gaze lingered on her face for a brief moment before shifting calmly away.