Chapter 39: Empty Days
Calla’s POV
The first day without Adrian stretched endlessly before me like an ocean of silence. I woke to cold sheets and the hollow echo of my own footsteps through rooms that felt cavernous without his commanding presence to fill them.
“Your breakfast, Mrs. Thorne,” Lydia said, setting the tray beside me with the kind of gentle efficiency that made me feel like an invalid.
“Thank you.” The words came automatically, but food held no appeal. Everything tasted like cardboard when Adrian wasn’t there to share meals with me, to watch me with those intense silver eyes that made even simple acts feel significant.
I drifted through the house like a ghost, touching his things—the book he’d been reading, left open on his nightstand; the coffee cup he’d abandoned on his desk; the jacket hanging in his closet that still carried traces of his cologne. Each item was a talisman against the crushing loneliness that pressed against my chest.
By afternoon, the emptiness had become unbearable. I found myself in the conservatory, surrounded by Adrian’s carefully curated orchids, their exotic beauty a painful reminder of his refined taste in everything—including wives.
“Perhaps you’d like to try watercolors?” Lydia suggested when she found me staring blankly at the flowers. “I could set up an easel in the morning room. The light is particularly lovely this time of day.”
Watercolors. The suggestion sparked something—a memory of pleasure I couldn’t quite place, fingers moving across paper, colors bleeding into each other like liquid emotion.
“I’d like that,” I said, surprised by the genuine interest in my voice.
Lydia produced supplies with the kind of efficiency that suggested she’d been prepared for this request. Brushes, paints, paper—everything I needed to pour the restless energy of missing Adrian into something tangible.
The first strokes were tentative, uncertain. But as the afternoon light shifted across the paper, I found myself lost in the meditative process of creating something beautiful. Colors that reminded me of Adrian’s eyes, of the gardens he’d designed for our home, of the life he’d built around us both.
Painting became my refuge over the following days. When the silence of the house threatened to swallow me whole, I could lose myself in pigment and water, creating images that somehow captured the ache of wanting someone who wasn’t there.
I painted the view from our bedroom window at sunset. The roses in the garden where Adrian had first kissed me as my husband. Abstract swirls of silver and blue that somehow felt like the essence of longing made visible.
“These are beautiful,” Lydia said on the third day, studying the small collection I’d created. “You have real talent.”
Talent. The word felt foreign, like praise for something I hadn’t known I possessed. When had I learned to paint? The skills felt both new and familiar, as if remembering something forgotten rather than learning something fresh.
But thoughts of my mysterious artistic abilities vanished when my phone rang and Adrian’s name appeared on the screen.
“Hello, beautiful,” his voice poured through the phone like honey, immediately easing the tight knot of loneliness in my chest.
“Adrian,” I breathed, settling into the window seat where I could pretend he was just across the room instead of thousands of miles away. “I missed your voice. How are the negotiations going?”
As he spoke about complicated business deals and demanding clients, I found myself painting his voice in my mind—rich amber tones with silver undertones, warm but with an edge of steel that spoke of power barely held in check.
“I’m sorry you’re having to deal with difficult people,” I said, genuinely meaning it. The thought of anyone causing Adrian stress made something protective flare in my chest.
But thoughts of my mysterious artistic abilities vanished when I pressed Adrian’s name on the screen and lifted the phone to my ear.
“Hello, beautiful,” his voice poured through the line like honey, immediately easing the tight knot of loneliness in my chest.
“Adrian,” I breathed, settling into the window seat where I could pretend he was just across the room instead of thousands of miles away. “I missed your voice. How are the negotiations going?”
As he spoke about complicated business deals and demanding clients, I found myself painting his voice in my mind—rich amber tones with silver undertones, warm but with an edge of steel that spoke of power barely held in check.
“I’m sorry you’re having to deal with difficult people,” I said, genuinely meaning it. The thought of anyone causing Adrian stress made something protective flare in my chest.
But then, in the background of his call, I heard something that made my breath catch. A child’s voice—young, maybe just learning to speak, calling out what sounded distinctly like “daddy.”
“What was that?” I asked, my heart suddenly racing with inexplicable emotion.
“What was what?” Adrian’s tone remained casual, but I caught something underneath—a sharpness that suggested heightened attention.
“I thought I heard… it sounded like a child. A baby saying daddy.”
The word hung in the air between us, heavy with implications I couldn’t quite grasp. Something about that innocent sound had stirred emotions in me that felt dangerous, like touching a wound I’d forgotten existed.
“Oh, that,” Adrian said smoothly. “The hotel is hosting some kind of family conference. Children everywhere, I’m afraid. Makes it difficult to concentrate on serious negotiations.”
Family conference. The explanation made perfect sense, but something in my chest remained tight with an emotion I couldn’t name. Why would the sound of a child calling for their father affect me so strongly?
“How annoying for you,” I managed, though part of me had wanted to keep listening to that small voice, wanted to understand why it made me feel like crying.
After we hung up, I sat staring at my latest painting—a swirl of blues and silvers that I’d intended to represent Adrian’s eyes but somehow looked more like tears.
Why tears? I was happy in my marriage, content with the life Adrian had built for us. So why did the sound of a child’s voice make me feel like I was drowning in loss I couldn’t understand?
I pushed the troubling thoughts away and focused on counting the hours until Adrian would be home.