Chapter 35 Thirty Five
Antonia Adam’s taxi rolled to a stop in front of a modest apartment complex just as the evening lights flickered on, one by one, casting a warm glow over the unfamiliar street. She stepped out slowly, her small suitcase in hand, and stared up at the building like it might speak to her, like it might tell her she had done the right thing by coming here.
She hadn’t told many people where she was going. Just enough to disappear.
In fact, the only people that knew of her whereabouts were Helen, Ernest and of course Lucy who she had come all this way to live with.
Before doubt could fully settle in, the front door swung open.
“Antonia!”
Lucy rushed out barefoot, her face splitting into a wide grin before she wrapped Antonia in a tight hug that smelled like vanilla lotion and home. Real home. The kind that didn’t ask questions right away.
“You made it,” Lucy said, pulling back to look at her. “God, look at you. You’re thinner.”
Antonia forced a smile. “You always say that.”
Lucy took her suitcase with ease. “Come inside. You must be exhausted after that long trip.”
The apartment was cozy and lived-in, soft music humming in the background, a half-finished mug of tea on the counter. It felt safe. Normal. Exactly what Antonia had been craving.
They exchanged small talk,about the trip, the city, Lucy’s job, the terrible traffic,easy conversations that skimmed the surface, deliberately avoiding anything too deep. Lucy didn’t push. She never did.
After a while, she led Antonia down the short hallway. “This is your room. It’s not big, but it’s yours.”
Antonia stepped inside and froze.
The room was simple, a neatly made bed, a small desk by the window, pale curtains fluttering gently with the breeze, but her chest tightened anyway. For the first time since everything had unraveled, she was truly alone.
Lucy lingered at the doorway. “I’ll let you unpack. We can talk later, yeah?”
Antonia nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Lucy. For everything.”
Lucy smiled softly. “Always.”
When the door clicked shut, silence settled around her.
Antonia sat on the edge of the bed, her suitcase still untouched. The quiet felt loud, pressing. Her thoughts, which she had managed to keep at bay all day, came rushing back with cruel clarity.
Kennedy Walton.
His voice. His eyes. The way his control had slipped so easily around her. The way she had left without a goodbye, without closure, without courage.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling, her throat tightening.
Did I do the right thing?
Would I regret it?
The questions whispered again and again, growing louder with each passing second. Leaving had felt like survival. Staying had felt like destruction waiting to happen. But distance didn’t erase longing, it only sharpened it.
She closed her eyes, but his face followed her there too.
\---
That same night, miles away, Kennedy Walton’s house felt unbearably empty.
He sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed, his tie loosened but forgotten, his phone lying dark and useless beside him. Sleep refused to come. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory of Helen’s door closing replayed itself final, merciless.
She’s gone.
Antonia's gone for good.
The words echoed in his head like a verdict.
He ran a hand down his face, exhaustion weighing heavy on his bones. He had lost her not because he hadn’t wanted her enough, but because he had wanted her too much.
The silence pressed in, and without quite knowing why, he stood and walked toward the far end of the room.
The closet.
He hadn’t opened that side in years.
His hand hesitated on the handle before he pulled it open.
The faint scent of citrus greeted him, Ruth’s perfume, still clinging stubbornly to fabrics untouched by time. Dresses hung neatly, shoes lined below, scarves folded just as she had left them.
A sad smile tugged at his lips.
“Still taking up space,” he murmured, voice rough.
He sifted through her things slowly, reverently. A silk blouse he remembered buying on Valentine's day. A cardigan she wore when she caught colds. Each item carried a memory sharp enough to draw blood. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes tears slipped free without warning.
Then his fingers brushed against something stiff at the back of the shelf.
A photo.
He pulled it out, and froze.
It was Ruth, younger, radiant, laughing at the camera. But she wasn’t alone.
An arm was slung casually around her shoulders, a man stood beside her, smiling with an ease that made Kennedy’s stomach twist. He had never seen him before. Never heard her mention him.
Kennedy stared at the image, confusion blooming into something darker.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
The question followed him as the night stretched on, unanswered, relentless.
And as he forced himself to sleep later that night, he couldn't tell which one bothered him more; Antonia's relocation, or the picture he found in Ruth's belongings.
He felt so miserable.