Chapter 44 Forty Four
Ernest returned that same evening.
Helen was in the kitchen when she heard the sound of the front door opening, soft, cautious, like someone unsure of their welcome. She froze mid-motion, fingers tightening around the dishcloth in her hand.
That wasn’t possible.
She hadn’t expected him back. Not tonight. Not after the way he’d walked out that morning, suitcase in hand, silence heavy with things unsaid.
Slowly, she turned.
Ernest stood just inside the doorway, his travel bag resting on the floor beside him. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his tie loosened, his expression unreadable.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
“You’re… back,” Helen finally said, her voice carefully neutral.
“Yes.”
She set the dishcloth down, wiping her hands slowly on her robe as she stepped closer. “What happened?”
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn't travel again. I sent my assistant to stand in for me.”
Her brows drew together. “You what?”
“I postponed the trip,” he clarified. “At least for now.”
Hope flickered in her chest before she could stop it. “Thank you.” She whispered.
He met her eyes then, his gaze steady but distant. “I did it for my son.”
The words landed with a dull thud.
Not for you.
She swallowed, nodding slowly. “Of course.”
“I don’t want him growing up thinking his father doesn’t care,” Ernest continued. “That’s not who I am.”
Helen folded her arms, hugging herself. “I know.”
His jaw tightened.
The room seemed to shrink around them.
“I didn’t expect you to do it for me,” she said quietly.
Silence followed, thick and awkward, but different from before. Less sharp. Less explosive.
“I’ll be home for a while,” Ernest added. “I’ll spend time with him.”
She nodded again. “He’ll be happy.”
That was all she said.
Later that night, as Helen lay awake beside him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, she wondered if this fragile truce was the beginning of something mended, or just a temporary pause before another departure.
At least, for tonight, he was home.
\----
The next morning, miles away, the conference room inside Priscillia Walton’s restaurant was filled to capacity.
Rows of chairs lined neatly against the walls. The air buzzed with nervous energy, cleared throats, whispered conversations, the rustle of paper as applicants clutched their files tightly, each one hopeful, anxious, determined.
This was a good opportunity.
A stable, reputable restaurant.
A managerial role with growth potential.
For many of them, it felt like a turning point.
Austin sat among them.
He wore a simple button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, his posture relaxed but attentive. A slim folder rested on his lap, his fingers lightly gripping its edge.
He had barely slept the night before.
Not because of nerves, he’d faced pressure before in kitchens far more chaotic than this. But because of the weight pressing quietly on his chest.
Antonia.
Her laughter.
The way she touched her belly when she thought no one was looking.
The trust in her eyes when she told him the truth.
He had applied for this job without telling her.
Not because he was hiding anything, but because he didn’t want to promise something that wasn’t yet real. He wanted certainty first. Stability. Something solid he could offer.
If he got this job, he could finally step into something bigger.
Something steady.
Something worthy of her.
The door opened, drawing everyone’s attention forward.
The HR Manager stepped inside, heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. She offered a polite smile, though her expression carried the calm authority of someone used to command.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said. “Thank you for your patience.”
Murmurs of greeting followed.
“I apologize for the slight delay,” she continued. “We’ll begin shortly.”
She glanced down at her tablet, then looked back up. “Before we start, I need to reiterate an important requirement for this position.”
A subtle shift rippled through the room. People straightened. Pens paused mid-air.
“As stated clearly in the application,” the HR Manager said, her voice even, “this role is only open to married applicants.”
Silence fell.
Then whispers.
Low, confused murmurs spread across the room like a wave.
“Married?”
“I thought that was negotiable.”
“That’s… odd.”
The HR Manager raised a hand gently. “Please. If you are not married, we kindly ask that you excuse yourselves now. This will save everyone time.”
Chairs scraped against the floor as some applicants exchanged glances, frustration and disbelief etched across their faces.
One man stood abruptly. “That wasn’t emphasized enough.”
“It was,” she replied calmly. “We apologize if it was overlooked.”
Another woman sighed, gathering her things. “This is ridiculous.”
Still, she stood and walked out.
One by one, people rose.
Some shook their heads.
Some muttered under their breath.
Some left quietly, disappointment evident in their slumped shoulders.
Austin didn’t move.
He stared down at his folder, jaw clenched, his pulse pounding loud in his ears.
Married.
The word echoed.
A chair beside him emptied.
Then another.
The room thinned quickly.
Austin remained seated, shoulders tense, his gaze fixed on the ground.
He felt exposed. Vulnerable.
Not because he wasn’t married.
But because he wished, briefly, dangerously, that things were simpler.
That life had given him an easier path.
The HR Manager scanned the room, noting who remained. Her eyes paused briefly on Austin, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.
“You may all remain seated,” she said to those still there. “We’ll begin the first round shortly.”
Austin swallowed.
He stayed.
Because walking away wasn’t an option.
Not anymore.
Not when Antonia was counting on him to be more than just a comforting presence.
Not when he had already decided, quietly, firmly, that he wanted to build something real, even if the world insisted on complicating it.
As the murmurs faded and the remaining candidates settled back into their seats, Austin finally lifted his head.
His expression was unreadable.
But beneath the calm exterior, one truth burned steadily:
Whatever happened next, he wasn’t leaving.
Not this room.
Not Antonia.
Not the future he was finally trying to claim.
He would get this job—no matter what it took.