Four Hundred And Fourteen

Four Hundred And Fourteen
James’ POV

The house was silent, save for the soft tick of the antique clock in the hallway. The rest of the estate seemed to have drifted into the kind of sleep that had eluded me for years, a quiet I had once found comforting but now felt like a weight pressing against my chest. I had tried, God knows I had tried,to bury the thoughts, to lock them away behind layers of anger, resentment, and a carefully constructed armor. Yet, as I stood here, just outside Ella’s closed studio door, all that armor felt flimsy, useless. Lately I have been finding myself wandering to her door.

I pressed my palm against the cool wood, leaning slightly, as if the act of contact would somehow anchor me, give me clarity. But it did nothing. The faint light spilling from the crack beneath the door illuminated the narrow strip of floor, and I knew she was inside. Probably bent over her designs, completely absorbed, lost in the creative world she always inhabited so effortlessly. I should feel anger,how dare she exist so calmly while I wrestled with all that had been stolen from me, with the lies, the years she had hidden from me,but I didn’t. Not really.

Instead, I felt the familiar ache, a hollow, gnawing pull that had haunted me since the day I discovered Cecilia’s existence. That little girl, my daughter, had been hidden from me. And yet, the thought of her, of Ella raising her all these years, didn’t bring anger the way it should have. It brought something more complicated, more dangerous. Something I hadn’t been prepared to confront until now.

I leaned against the doorframe, jaw tight, fists clenching at my sides. Hate. I tried to summon it. I had spent years nurturing it like a shield. I told myself that every pang of longing, every memory of Ella, every fragment of affection I felt was a betrayal, a crack in the wall I had built around my heart. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many nights I spent convincing myself that she was the enemy, that she had wronged me beyond repair, the truth sat there, undeniable and terrifying.

I still loved her.

The words echoed in my mind, repeating like a mantra I didn’t want to admit. Loved her. Loved her through the years she had kept secrets from me, loved her even when I had hated her for things she had done. Loved her through every sleepless night, every moment I spent imagining what life would have been like if she had stayed, if she hadn’t walked away, if the past could have been different.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight. Love. It wasn’t just a passing feeling, not some shallow attachment that could be dismissed with a sarcastic remark or a pointed glance. No, it ran deeper than that. It was in the way my chest tightened when I thought of her, in the way my mind replayed every memory, every argument, every fleeting moment of tenderness we had ever shared. It was in the ache I felt when I imagined her in the arms of another man, in the knowledge that she had lived years without me, and I had known nothing of her life, her struggles, her daughter.

I pressed my forehead to the door, closing my eyes, letting the weight of it all settle around me. Fear. That was the next wave. Fear of admitting it, fear of what it meant, fear of vulnerability after so many years of guarding myself. Love was dangerous. It made you weak. It made you exposed. And I had spent six years sharpening my defenses, honing my hatred, convincing myself that the best way to survive was to keep her at a distance. But the truth… the truth was that distance had never worked.

Every laugh she had shared with Cecilia, every smile, every small gesture of care I had witnessed,it all tore at me. I remembered the night she had stayed up with our daughter while she had a fever, the tender way she had comforted her, the soft murmur of words I would never hear from anyone else. I remembered standing just outside her bedroom, listening, feeling a longing that was equal parts desire and despair. I had hated myself for it, hated her for making me feel it, hated the universe for keeping her just out of reach for so long.

But there was no more hating. Not really. I could try to convince myself otherwise, could replay every argument, every betrayal, every ounce of resentment, but beneath it all, it was just a lie I told myself to survive. The truth was raw, jagged, and terrifying: I had never stopped loving her. Not once. Not for a single day.

I drew back slightly, pacing the hallway now, restless. The estate, usually a sanctuary of order and control, felt stifling. My hands dug into my hair, tugging at the strands as if I could pull clarity from the tension alone. I tried to think of her as she had been, years ago, when we were young, when the world hadn’t yet become so cruel, so complicated. I remembered the softness of her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about something she loved, the way she had challenged me, infuriated me, yet fascinated me endlessly. And I remembered the way she looked after I pulled her from the swimming pool, how she looked as I hunched over my sister’s body trying to revive her.

I stopped, leaning again against the doorframe, hands pressed against the wood as if I could reach through it and touch her. I imagined the heat of her presence, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the room, the softness of her hair brushing against my fingers. My chest tightened at the thought, and I realized with a jolt that I would give anything to hear her voice right now, to see her glance up at me, to share even a moment of unguarded truth with her.

But fear held me back. Fear, pride and hatred, intertwined so tightly I could hardly separate them. I had been the one who had demanded distance, who had built walls to protect myself, who had clung to the illusion that I could hate her and survive. And yet, here I was, confessing silently to the darkness of this hallway, to a closed door, to the empty air: I still loved her.

I swallowed hard, heart hammering, hands trembling slightly. How had it come to this? How had I let myself be brought to my knees by feelings I had spent years burying? The answer was simple, and yet devastating: because it was never gone. It had always been there, beneath the surface, a quiet, insistent pulse that refused to be silenced. I had loved her through everything she had caused, even when I had hated her with every fiber of my being.

The weight of the truth pressed down on me, suffocating and freeing all at once. I wanted to knock on the door, to tell her everything, to bare my soul in a way I hadn’t allowed myself in years. But I couldn’t. I could only stand here, wrestling with the confession that had been locked inside me for far too long.