CHAPTER 62: The Anticipated Guest’s Absence
I remained in the dining room as the minutes continued to slip past eight, then ten, then fifteen, each one landing heavier than the last. By the time half an hour had passed, the stillness felt deliberate, almost confrontational. “Thirty minutes,” I muttered under my breath, glancing at my watch again despite promising myself I wouldn’t. The second hand moved with infuriating confidence, indifferent to my patience wearing thin. This is no longer a delay, I thought. This is absence. The table was untouched, the food long past its intended moment, and the quiet pressed in like it expected a response from me.
I pushed back from the chair and stood, walking toward the window with my hands clasped behind my back. My reflection followed me in the glass—composed, controlled, but tight around the eyes. “You’re not late like this,” I said quietly, as if she could hear me.
The driveway below remained empty, the gates unmoved. A familiar irritation surfaced, edged now with something more unsettling. If something had happened, she would have called. Or texted. The thought didn’t reassure me the way it should have.
“You should call her,” Marta’s earlier voice echoed in my mind, unhelpfully reasonable. I scoffed softly to myself. And say what? That I’ve been counting minutes? That I care enough to notice? My phone felt heavier in my hand when I picked it up, the screen dark, waiting. I imagined her seeing my name light up her screen—what would that look like to her? Concern? Pressure? Disapproval? I exhaled slowly, forcing my grip to loosen. Don’t overreact.
I paced the room, once, twice, my steps measured but restless. “This is inefficient,” I said aloud, irritation slipping through my control. Waiting achieves nothing. Silence proves nothing. Thirty minutes wasn’t an accident; it was a disruption. Intentional or not, it demanded acknowledgment. I stopped pacing and stared down at my phone again, thumb hovering just above the screen. One call wouldn’t undo anything, I reasoned. It would simply establish facts. The logic was sound. The hesitation was not.
I stood there longer than I should have, caught between restraint and impulse, irritation and something dangerously close to concern. “Enough,” I said quietly, to myself this time. My patience had been worn thin second by second, stretched past courtesy into tension. Whether I liked it or not, the waiting had changed the shape of the morning. And I knew, with a clarity I couldn’t ignore, that the next thing I did—call, text, or continue to wait—would say more than silence ever could.
But then the sound reached me before the sight did—the low mechanical groan of the main gate opening, followed by the unmistakable crunch of tires against gravel. I turned just as a yellow cab came into view, bright and entirely out of place against the muted stone and greenery of the estate. For a moment, I simply watched it roll forward, absurdly vivid, undeniably real. Relief came first, sharp and unwelcome, followed immediately by something warmer. A smile—brief, instinctive, unguarded—spread across my lips before I could stop it. I turned away from the window at once, as if the glass might accuse me of having waited too intently.
“Everyone,” I said, voice firm, controlled, already reclaiming its usual authority as I stepped back into the center of the room. The staff straightened instantly, attention snapping into place. “We’ll reset.” I glanced at the table, mentally cataloging what needed correcting. Everything, I realized. Waiting had dulled the moment; I refused to let her arrival inherit that tension.
“Fresh coffee,” I ordered, already moving. “New pot. Strong, but not bitter.” I gestured toward the table. “Clear the cups. Replace them. Warm them first.” There was no hesitation now, no overthinking—only momentum. Chairs were adjusted, porcelain lifted and replaced, quiet confirmations murmured as the room came alive again.
“The food needs to be redone,” I continued. “Nothing that’s been sitting. Start over.” I paused, then added, “Keep it light. She likely hasn’t eaten.” The words slipped out before I considered them, but no one questioned it. Staff dispersed in efficient arcs, the silence breaking into purposeful sound.
I moved to the window once more, just long enough to confirm what I already knew. The cab had stopped. The door opened. I didn’t wait to see more. “Open the windows,” I said over my shoulder. “Just slightly. And bring fresh flowers—nothing heavy. White.” I turned back to the table, adjusting the placement of a napkin with unnecessary precision. The irritation from earlier had vanished, replaced by something restless, anticipatory.
Marta appeared near the doorway, watching the controlled chaos with quiet amusement. “She’s here,” she said, unnecessarily.
“I’m aware,” I replied, though the edge was gone from my voice. I straightened, smoothed my sleeves, and took a steady breath. The room felt different now—awake, aligned, ready. Whatever impatience had worn me thin moments ago was already being overwritten by intent.
By the time the staff finished resetting the table, the estate had slipped seamlessly back into order, as if the delay had never existed. I stood still for a beat, letting composure settle fully into place. Then I nodded once. “That will be all,” I said.
I straightened fully and turned toward Marta, catching her just as she finished giving a quiet instruction to one of the attendants. “Come with me,” I said, already moving, my tone leaving no room for question. “We’ll receive her at the foyer.” Marta’s eyes flicked to mine, something knowing passing between us, but she nodded without comment, falling into step beside me as naturally as she always did.
We walked through the hallways together, our footsteps echoing softly against stone, the house seeming to shift around us in anticipation. The morning light poured in through the tall arches, catching dust motes in the air, warming the space in a way that felt intentional rather than accidental. I adjusted my sleeves once as we walked, then stilled my hands, aware of the movement and annoyed by it. Marta noticed, of course. She always did, but she said nothing, allowing the silence to do its work.
“You don’t usually go to the foyer yourself,” she remarked lightly as we passed beneath one of the larger arches. “You let people come to you.”
“This is different,” I replied without slowing. The words were simple, unadorned, but they carried weight. Different didn’t require explanation. Different was already evident in every choice I’d made that morning.
The foyer came into view—wide, sunlit, composed to impress without excess. The front doors stood closed for now, the faint sound of voices drifting in from outside as staff prepared to open them. I stopped a few steps from the entrance, posture settling into something deliberate but not rigid. Marta took her place slightly to my left, hands folded loosely, observant and calm.
“Try not to look so severe,” she murmured under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
“I am not severe,” I replied evenly.
She smiled faintly. “You’re anticipating.”
I didn’t correct her.
The doors began to open, sunlight spilling across the marble floor, and I fixed my attention forward, composure fully restored. Whatever impatience had marked the last half hour was gone, replaced by readiness. Leila was here. And this time, I intended to meet her properly.
The next thing I saw stopped me short—not with disbelief, but with a sharp, unwelcome jolt that still managed to catch me off guard. Elliot stepped into the foyer alone. No Leila at his side. No hurried movement behind him. Just Elliot, slightly rumpled, clutching a slim folder, scanning the space as if he were the one uncertain now. Surprise flickered through me, immediately followed by something colder. Not her. The realization landed hard, heavier than it should have.
I kept my expression neutral, though my focus narrowed. “Elliot,” I said, my voice steady despite the shift inside me. My gaze moved past him instinctively, toward the open doors, toward the drive beyond, searching for a second silhouette that didn’t appear. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen, I thought, irritation resurfacing, sharper for being unexpected. I had reset the morning for her arrival. I had adjusted for her absence. And now this.
Elliot practically bounced on the balls of his feet the moment he registered my presence. “You—you know my name!” he stammered, his hands fluttering toward the folder he clutched like a lifeline. “I—I can’t believe it. You actually know it! I mean—I’ve read Ashen King so many times… but to think… that the author would—would—know me. It’s…” He broke off, as if the weight of his own words had finally caught him.
“I make a point of knowing the people I work with,” I said evenly, not rising to the bait of excitement. My tone was flat, controlled. I kept my hands clasped behind my back, posture impeccable. He blinked at me, processing the brevity of my answer as if it were a challenge.
“You make a point?” he echoed, rushing forward. “You—you don’t just read the reviews, you read the people? That’s insane! Incredible! I—I mean… Ashen King! The power, the—oh God—the intricacy! The way the political webs intersect with personal ambition! It’s phenomenal! I’ve never—never read anything like it!” He leaned forward, gesturing wildly with the folder in his hands. “The dialogue, the pacing, the moral ambiguity—you don’t make it easy for anyone, do you? You don’t spoon-feed the reader. You—”
I held up a hand, stopping him mid-gesture without looking at him. “Yes,” I said flatly. “I didn’t spoon-feed.”
Elliot hesitated, blinked, and then nodded vigorously, undeterred. “Exactly! That’s what I mean! Most authors soften, justify, make things palatable—but not you! You let the consequences land. You don’t offer absolution. You don’t wrap it up neatly. It’s ruthless, but brilliant. And the ending—oh, the ending! I’ve read it three times already! Every choice, every action—it’s like a chessboard. And the characters—God, they bite back. They never forgive, never compromise. It’s—oh, it’s incredible!”
I shifted slightly, uninterested. My eyes scanned the foyer, lingering on the marble, the sunlight streaming through the arches. “I’m aware of my choices,” I said evenly. No excitement. No spark. Just fact.
“But you don’t get it!” Elliot pressed on, leaning in as if my cool detachment challenged him personally. “Most people talk about Ashen King like it’s… it’s just another book. But it’s not. Every plot twist, every moral ambiguity—it’s deliberate. You don’t write to impress or to be safe. You write to force the reader to think! And the political dynamics—” He waved the folder again, caught mid-sentence in fervent excitement. “—the intrigue, the strategy, the consequences! Oh, God! The consequences! You—oh! You know what you’re doing, and it’s terrifying and brilliant all at once!”
I exhaled softly, turning my head slightly to the side. “I understand,” I said, my voice calm, clipped. I didn’t need his approval. His words were noise, almost charming, but ultimately irrelevant. I had written the book. I knew its weight, its meaning. I didn’t need an enthusiastic underling to affirm it.
“But it matters!” Elliot insisted, leaning forward with pleading energy. “To people like me! It’s not just a book—it’s a statement! And you—you’re… you’re the literary god of it! Do you even realize what you’ve done? The layers, the scope, the audacity? I mean—every single sentence is precise. You could tear it apart for the tiniest inconsistency, and I’d still worship it!”
I tilted my head slightly, watching him, unmoved. “I am aware of the scope of my work. Your worship is unnecessary.”
Elliot froze for a moment, almost taken aback. Then, as if realizing it wasn’t a rebuke, he blinked, flustered but undeterred. “Unnecessary? But—but it’s important! You—you should know how much it matters to people! How much it—” He stopped abruptly, searching for words. “How much it—meant to me!”
I glanced down at him, my expression unreadable. “Noted,” I said simply, returning my attention to the foyer, letting the moment fade. His gushing had run its course, and I was unmoved, unaffected, controlled—precisely as I always was. The praise, earnest though it was, changed nothing.