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41
Chapter 41
Lyon sat in a corner outside his study, he had set like a mini office, the dim light from his desk lamp casting shadows over his face. Papers were strewn across the table, but his eyes weren’t focused on them. His hands rested on his temples, his jaw clenched tightly as though it was the only thing keeping him together.
Downstairs, Fiona stood near the kitchen door, clutching a tray of tea she had prepared. She hesitated for a moment, staring at the staircase, before taking a deep breath and walking up.
“Mr. Lyon?” Fiona called softly, standing at the edge of the doorframe.
Lyon didn’t look up. His fingers drummed against the desk, a steady beat in the heavy silence.
“Sir, I just brought some tea... I thought it might help,” she continued, stepping into the room.
“I don’t need tea, Fiona,” Lyon said without turning, his tone sharp but low.
She paused, her nerves prickling at the coldness in his voice. “I just thought... you haven’t eaten all day, and—”
“I said I don’t need it!” Lyon snapped suddenly, slamming his hand on the desk.
Fiona flinched, nearly dropping the tray. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to upset you,” she whispered, backing away.
He finally looked at her, his eyes dark with exhaustion and irritation. “If you want to help, then stop hovering. Go do your work.”
Fiona’s lips parted as though she wanted to say something, but she stopped herself. Instead, she nodded silently and retreated down the stairs, her heart heavy.
---
That evening, Martins walked into the kitchen to find Fiona sitting at the counter, her head in her hands.
“What happened?” Martins asked, his voice low.
“He’s... different, Martins. It’s like he’s not even the same person anymore,” Fiona said, her voice breaking. “I tried to bring him tea earlier, and he shouted at me.”
Martins frowned, leaning against the counter. “He’s been through a lot. But we can’t let him drown in this. He’s shutting everyone out, even us.”
Fiona looked up at him, her expression desperate. “What can we do? He barely even looks at anyone. It’s like nothing reaches him.”
Martins thought for a moment before nodding resolutely. “We’ll do something to cheer him up. Something that reminds him he still has people who care about him.”
---
The next day, Fiona and Martins hatched a plan. They decided to organize a small dinner for Lyon at the house, something simple yet warm. Fiona cooked all of Lyon’s favorite dishes, while Martins set up the dining area with soft lighting and music.
When evening came, Martins went to Lyon’s office. He knocked on the door and, without waiting for an answer, stepped inside.
“Mr. Lyon,” Martins began. “You’ve been working too hard. Fiona and I thought you could use a break. Come downstairs.”
Lyon didn’t even glance up from his papers. “I don’t have time for breaks, Martins. I have work to do.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Martins insisted. “You need to eat, sir.”
Lyon finally looked up, his gaze cold and unyielding. “I said no.”
Martins hesitated but decided to push further. “Mr. Lyon, this isn’t just about you. Fiona’s been worried sick. We all have. You’re not yourself, and—”
“Enough!” Lyon barked, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I don’t need anyone’s pity. Just leave me alone!”
Martins clenched his fists but nodded, stepping back. He didn’t want to make things worse, but it hurt to see Lyon like this.
---
Despite his cold demeanor at home, Lyon’s work life was busier than ever. As the new chairman, his schedule was packed with meetings, conferences, and paperwork. His mornings began at dawn, with his driver taking him to the company headquarters. Once there, he’d dive straight into meetings with department heads, reviewing strategies and progress reports.
By midday, he’d move to client negotiations, sitting at a large conference table with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. Lunch was usually a quick sandwich at his desk, eaten while poring over financial charts and legal documents.
Afternoons were no less hectic, often filled with site visits or video calls with international partners. His assistant struggled to keep up, running from one task to another as Lyon operated with laser focus, his emotions buried beneath layers of professionalism.
Evenings were consumed by more work at home, his study light glowing late into the night. The staff rarely saw him leave his desk, and when they did, he carried an air of untouchable detachment.
---
One evening, Martins found Fiona in the kitchen again, this time chopping vegetables aimlessly.
“We need to try again,” Martins said, leaning against the counter.
Fiona sighed. “He doesn’t want our help, Martins. I don’t know what else to do.”
Martins shook his head. “I can’t just watch him destroy himself. He’s hurting, Fiona. And I know he won’t say it, but he needs us.”
Fiona looked at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Then what do we do?”
Martins hesitated before replying, “We keep showing up. Even if he pushes us away, we don’t stop.”
---
But no matter what they tried, small gestures, thoughtful acts, or even just being present, Lyon remained unreachable. His once warm smiles were replaced by an icy mask, and his laughter, which used to fill the house, was now a distant memory.
Late one night, as Lyon sat alone in his study, he stared at a photo of him and Kathryn from better days. His fingers traced the edges of the frame, his expression unreadable.
“I’m fine,” he muttered to himself, his voice hollow. “I have work. That’s all I need.”
But even he didn’t believe it.
——
Lyon was buried in paperwork when the door to his office creaked open. Without looking up, he said, “I thought I said no interruptions.”
“I’m not just anyone,” a familiar, sultry voice replied.
Lyon froze for a moment before lifting his gaze. Wendy stood there, dressed to perfection in a sharp red blazer and pencil skirt, her lips curled into a smug smile.
“Wendy,” he said, his tone cold. “What are you doing here?”
She stepped in, closing the door behind her. “I heard your wife left,” she began, her words dripping with faux sympathy. “Even after everything you’ve done for her. That’s… pathetic.”
Lyon’s jaw tightened, his fingers clenching the pen in his hand. “What do you want, Wendy?”
She ignored his question, sauntering over to the chair opposite his desk and sitting down like she owned the place. “I’m here because I care, Lyon. You’ve been through a lot. And honestly,” she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “this could be a fresh start for us.”
“There’s no ‘us,’” Lyon said, his voice like steel. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he regarded her with disdain.
Wendy tilted her head, unfazed by his dismissal. “Oh, come on, Lyon. Don’t be so cold. We’ve always had a connection, you and I. Maybe now you’ll finally see that.”
Lyon stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Wendy, I don’t have time for this. Whatever fantasy you’re spinning in your head, leave me out of it. And get out of my office.”
Her smile faltered for a split second before she composed herself, rising gracefully. “You can deny it all you want, Lyon,” she said, her voice smooth. “But you’ll come around. You always do.”
As she walked to the door, she paused, glancing back at him. “Don’t forget, Lyon. I’ve always been here for you. Even when others walked away.”
The door clicked shut behind her, and Lyon exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
---
Fiona set the dining table with care, placing a steaming bowl of soup and a plate of Lyon’s favorite roasted chicken in front of his usual seat. Martins walked in, eyeing the spread with approval.
“He’s bound to eat this,” Martins said, leaning against the counter.
Fiona sighed. “I hope so. He barely ate anything yesterday.”
Just then, Lyon walked through the front door, his coat slung over his arm. His steps were heavy, his expression distant. Fiona stepped forward cautiously.
“Sir, dinner’s ready. I made your favorite,” she said softly.
“I’m not hungry,” Lyon replied without stopping, heading straight for the staircase.
“Mr. Lyon, please,” Fiona tried again, desperation creeping into her voice. “You need to eat something. You’ll get sick if you keep this up.”
Lyon paused at the bottom of the stairs, turning slightly. His gaze was cold, his tone curt. “I said I’m not hungry.”
Without another word, he ascended the stairs, leaving Fiona standing there with tears welling in her eyes.
---
Lyon sat in his study, the only sound in the room the scratching of his pen against paper. His phone buzzed on the desk, and he glanced at the screen.
Kathryn’s Mum.
He hesitated before answering. “Hello?”
“Lyon, it’s me,” her voice came through, tinged with worry. “I’ve been trying to reach Kathryn, but she’s not answering her phone. Do you know where she is?”
Lyon’s grip on the phone tightened. “She’s fine,” he lied, his voice steady.
There was a pause on the other end. “Are you sure? She’s not answering my calls or texts. It’s not like her to go silent like this.”
“She’s probably just... taking some time for herself,” Lyon said, trying to sound casual. “She’s been busy lately.”
“Lyon,” her tone was firm now. “Is everything okay between you two? You’re not hiding something, are you?”
Lyon swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Everything’s fine,” he repeated. “I’ll let her know you called.”
The silence on the other end lingered for a moment before she sighed. “Alright. But please, tell her to call me as soon as she can. I’m worried about her.”
“I will,” Lyon said before ending the call.
He set the phone down on the desk, staring at it for a long moment. His chest felt tight, the weight of his lie pressing down on him. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as the room seemed to close in around him.
---
Each passing day blurred into the next for Lyon. His cold demeanor became a shield, keeping everyone at arm’s length. Fiona and Martins watched helplessly as he kept acting up.
But in the quiet moments, when the house was still and his study was his only refuge, Lyon couldn’t escape the truth. No matter how much he pushed others away, the void Kathryn had left behind remained.
Lyon sat on the edge of his bed, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows across the room. He rubbed his temples, his mind swirling with thoughts he couldn’t escape.
The weight of everything was crushing him, but one question kept clawing at the edges of his sanity: Who could be responsible for Kathryn’s pregnancy?
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands gripping his hair. The words Kathryn had thrown at him still echoed in his head.
“The child isn’t yours.”
It didn’t make sense. Kathryn wasn’t the kind of woman to betray him, or at least, he had thought so.
He replayed their life together in his mind, scrutinizing every moment for signs he might have missed.
Did she ever act differently? Was there someone she was too close to?
He thought about her routine. Kathryn wasn’t someone who socialized much. Her life revolved around him, the house, and her family. But was there someone in her circle he had overlooked? Someone she could have turned to when things got tough between them?
His chest tightened as suspicion crept in. Could it be someone I know? Someone who’s been around us all this time?
A dark thought crossed his mind, and he flinched at it.
Could it be Martins?
No, that didn’t add up. Martins had been loyal, almost like a brother. There had never been a single moment that suggested anything inappropriate between him and Kathryn.