Chapter 34 Leave me alone
“Honey?”
Oliver’s voice, muffled through the door but clear enough, sliced into the stillness. It carried that familiar edge of forced warmth, the kind that once had soothed her but now only scraped against nerves already frayed.
“Is everything all right? You’ve been in there a while.”
Her eyes snapped open, the sound of his voice grating more than the knock itself. Irritation flooded her chest before she could stop it, hot and unwelcome. Of course it was him. Always him, always at the wrong moment, always pressing where she least wanted to be touched.
She wasn’t all right. Not even close. But she would never let him know. He didn’t deserve to know. Not anymore. Their marriage had moved past that long ago, past caring, past confessions, past honesty. What remained between them now was thinner, brittle. A shell of what once had life inside it. Routines. Obligations. The echo of love that no longer lived here. To the rest they may have seemed as a happy couple, but she knew the truth.
Another knock sounded, heavier this time, shaking the quiet around her.
“Honey?” Oliver’s tone carried unease now, stretched thin with worry. “Honey, are you okay?”
Her lips pressed together, sealing the sharp reply that threatened to slip free. Space. That was the one thing she had ever demanded of him. The one condition she had clung to. No hovering. No lingering outside doors that weren’t meant to open. If she wanted silence, it was hers. If she wanted distance, it was to be respected.
But here he was. Knocking. Lingering. Pressing.
Holland let out a slow, sharp breath, her nostrils flaring as her chest rose with it. The tension pooled hot at her temples, coiling tight in her neck. Enough.
Her hand slipped under the surface, fingers finding the chrome lever at her side. She pulled. The drain clicked open, the sound soft but final. Water began to spiral away, swirling in tightening circles, the surface dipping lower and lower until it lapped against her ribs, her hips, her thighs. The warmth fled with it, leaving her skin bare and prickling in the cooling air. Goosebumps chased across her arms as if the bath itself had turned against her.
She leaned back against the marble once more, head tilted up, eyes shut. The faint gurgle of water escaping was the only sound, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the steady thump of his knuckles against the door.
“Honey?” Oliver called again, softer this time, but insistent.
Holland stood, moving with a sharpness that betrayed her mood. She grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapping it around her head in quick, precise motions. Another towel followed, dragged around her body just as the knock came again.
“Holland,” Oliver’s voice carried, soft but insistent. “Talk to me.”
At the sound of his voice, her temper spiked, raw and sudden, cutting through what little control she still clung to. Heat burned in her chest, climbing her throat. She shoved herself up from the bath and stalked across the tiles, the chill of the air biting at her damp skin. Her palm slammed against the marble sink with a crack that echoed in the enclosed space. The sharp sting against her hand grounded nothing, it only fueled her fury.
“Damn it,” she hissed under her breath, the words harsh and low. First Camille, now him. Everyone seemed determined to push her over the edge today.
She tugged the towel snug against her chest, droplets running down her calves and spotting the tiles. Her steps were quick, sharp, each one striking the floor with a slap of impatience. She twisted the lock with a snap and yanked the door wide, motion cutting like a blade through the quiet.
Oliver was standing there, frozen mid-knock, his hand suspended in the air like a child caught in the wrong room. His eyes widened the instant they met hers, startled at the sight of his wife framed in the doorway, hair slicked back, towels clinging to her damp form, droplets of water running down her bare shoulders.
Holland’s glare cut straight into him. “What, Oliver!?” The words snapped out of her, clipped and burning, each syllable laced with venom.
Her eyes were narrowed, wanting for an answer that didn't seem to come as fast as she wanted. She didn’t move from the doorway. She didn’t soften. Every line of her body radiated fury, sharp and unrelenting, daring him to give her one reason, just one, as to why he was bothering her.
"Excuse me," she muttered pressing past him.
Oliver blinked, gathering himself, his hand lowering slowly. He followed her into the bedroom, watching the way she moved with clipped steps, her back tense. He had been married to her long enough to know the signs, one wrong word, one wrong move, and she would shut down completely, retreat behind walls he could no longer climb.
“Holland,” he tried carefully, his tone gentler now, cautious. “I was worried. You’ve been in there for so long.” He hesitated, searching her face, then added, “Honey, it’s dangerous to take a bath with the door locked. What if something happened and I couldn’t reach you?”
She turned her head slowly, her eyes sharp enough to cut. A scoff slipped out, low and cold, carrying all the weight of dismissal. “Oliver, please.”
He flinched at the sound, just barely, but forced himself to stand his ground. His voice softened further, raw around the edges. “I only want what’s best for you,” he said quietly. “I’m looking out for you. I love you.”
Holland pulled at the towel wound tight around her head, unwinding it with precise fingers. The cloth dropped into her hand, her damp hair spilling free, dark strands clinging to her skin and dripping against the towel still around her body. She kept her gaze steady on him, her face unreadable, detached, as if weighing whether his words deserved an answer at all.
When she finally spoke, her voice was flat, drained of warmth. “I had a long day at work,” she said, each word clipped. “I want to rest, Oliver. Just please... please leave me alone.”
“I made dinner,” Oliver offered quickly, stepping forward with a glimmer of hope, his hands twitching at his sides. “Come out, eat with me. We can have some wine and...”
I’m not hungry, Oliver.” She lifted her hand, dismissing him with a flick of her fingers. Her voice was steady, but her throat felt tight around the words. “Thank you. And good night.”
The room stilled. The silence hung heavy, pressing down between them like a weight neither was willing to lift. Oliver didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at her like he was trying to hold on to something long gone. For a flicker of a moment, his eyes softened with the same look he used to give her—the one that once told her she was his world, his home, his everything. But that was years ago. Now, all that remained in his gaze was longing, aching, desperate for a warmth that refused to return.
At last, his shoulders dropped, a subtle slump of defeat. He turned toward the door, hand hovering on the knob. He paused, glancing back once more, his voice quiet, hesitant. “I’ll keep your plate in the oven. So you can have it later.”
“I’m fine,” Holland replied, her tone clipped, final. She was already turning away, her face closing off like a door being locked. “You don’t need to.”
She crossed the room without another glance, her towel trailing faint drops of water along the floor. Her bare feet made no sound as she slipped into the walk-in closet. A moment later, the door shut with a muted thud, her figure swallowed by the dark inside.
Oliver lingered, staring at the space where she had stood, the air still holding her absence. His jaw tightened, but his eyes betrayed him, tired, sad, and carrying the quiet ache of a man who had once had it all and now stood on the outside of it. With a weary breath, he opened the door and stepped out, leaving the bedroom heavy with silence once more.