Chapter 34 Thirty Four
That same day, an argument had been simmering all evening at Helen and her husband's apartment.
It began quietly—too quietly—with Helen standing at the kitchen counter, folding laundry she had already folded twice, her movements sharp, restless. Ernest sat at the small dining table, scrolling through his phone, his travel bag propped against the wall like a silent provocation.
“How long this time?” Helen asked without turning around.
Ernest glanced up. “What?”
“The trip,” she said, finally facing him. “How long will you be gone this time?”
He sighed, already irritated. “Three days. Maybe four.”
Helen laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Of course. What’s new?”
Ernest pushed his chair back slightly. “Helen, don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” she echoed. “You just got back two days ago.”
“And I told you it was temporary,” he snapped. “Work doesn’t wait.”
Helen folded her arms. “Since when does your job demand this many impromptu trips? You’re barely home anymore, Ernest.”
He stood now, frustration flashing across his face. “I’m doing this for us.”
“For us?” she challenged. “Because it feels like you’re doing it to escape us.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” Helen said firmly, stepping closer. “What’s not fair is watching my husband live out of a suitcase while I raise our child practically alone.”
Ernest scoffed. “You’re acting like I’m doing something wrong.”
“You’re acting like this is normal.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re the only woman who complains when her husband is hustling to make sure food is on the table.”
Helen’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare gaslight me.”
Ernest stiffened. “Gaslight you? I’m working.”
“You’re disappearing,” she shot back. “There’s a difference.”
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
Helen’s voice dropped. “Since when did your job suddenly require so many trips? You used to be home every night.”
Ernest opened his mouth, then closed it again.
That hesitation was all the answer she needed.
Her chest tightened. “You’re hiding something.”
“Don’t do this,” he warned. “Don’t turn your insecurity into an accusation.”
“My insecurity?” she repeated incredulously. “You’re never here, Ernest. You miss dinners. You miss bedtime. You miss me.”
He looked away.
That hurt more than anything.
Helen swallowed hard, her voice trembling now, raw with months of swallowed frustration. “Why did you marry me?”
Ernest froze.
She stepped closer, tears burning her eyes but refusing to fall. “Tell me. Why did you marry me, Ernest? Was it because I was pregnant… or because you loved me?”
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Ernest turned slowly, his face unreadable. “Helen, I—”
A knock interrupted them.
Sharp. Insistent.
Both of them startled.
Helen wiped her face quickly, squaring her shoulders. “I’ll get it.”
She walked to the door, her heart still pounding from the argument, and pulled it open.
Kennedy Walton stood there.
He had thought it through on his way here, and had come to realize he wasn't ready to let Antonia go.
Helen stared back at him with surprise.
He looked Immaculate in a dark coat, composed posture—but something was off. His eyes were restless, searching, his expression strained in a way she had never seen before.
“Yes?” Helen asked cautiously.
“Good evening,” Kennedy said, his voice polite but tight. “I’m looking for Antonia Adams.”
Helen’s stomach dropped, as soon as she realized who he was.
"You're her boss, I mean...ex boss, right?" she quickly confirmed.
Kennedy nodded, "Yes. I'm Kennedy Walton. I'm guessing you are her sister?"
Helen nodded, then she said carefully, “Antonia, doesn’t live here anymore.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
For a moment, Kennedy didn’t react. He simply stood there, staring at her, as if his mind hadn’t caught up yet.
“Already… left?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” Helen replied. “She relocated.”
The world seemed to tilt.
Kennedy felt it—everything blurring, the edges of his vision dulling as reality crashed down around him. He had been too late.
He had lost her.
Gone.
Far beyond his reach.
His throat tightened. “Where did she go?”
Helen’s expression hardened.
“That’s not something I can tell you.”
Kennedy looked at her then—really looked—and saw the steel beneath her calm. A sister protecting what mattered most.
“Please,” he said, the word leaving him before pride could stop it. “I... I need to talk to her.”
Helen shook her head. “She doesn’t want you to know.”
“You don’t know that,” he argued softly.
“I do,” Helen replied firmly. “Because if she wanted you to find her, she would’ve told you herself.”
Kennedy clenched his fists at his sides. “I made a mistake.”
Helen’s gaze flickered briefly, something unreadable passing through it. “You already told her that.”
Kennedy winced.
He realized there that Antonia must have told her sister about them.
“What do you want to tell her that you couldn't when she resigned?” Helen asked.
Kennedy stuttered, “I just... I just wanted to talk with her.”
Helen stared hard at him. "Then call her. She no longer lives here because of you."
Kennedy stilled. "Because of me?"
Instead of answering him, she stepped back slightly, creating distance. “You should go.”
He searched her face, desperate now. “Please—”
“No,” she said gently but firmly. “This is where I tell you good night.”
The door closed softly but decisively in his face.
Kennedy stood there for a long moment, staring at the door as though it might open again if he waited long enough.
It didn’t.
Inside, Helen leaned back against the door, her heart racing.
Ernest stood a few feet away, watching her with narrowed eyes. “Who was that?”
“Kennedy Walton,” she replied quietly.
“Who's that?” Ernest frowned. “And what did he want?”
Helen exhaled slowly. “Antonia's ex boss. He wanted to speak with her.”
Ernest stiffened. “Why?”
She didn’t answer.
Because some truths weren’t hers to tell.
Outside, Kennedy turned away from the apartment, the night air cool against his skin, regret clawing mercilessly at his chest.
Antonia was gone.
And this time...
There was no door left to knock on.