Chapter 276: A Home Without Her

(Daniel POV)

By the time I got to the office, it was almost noon. Jack was waiting at the door with a document in his hand. His mouth opened, then closed again.

"Speak."

"Mr. Cooper, I postponed your two morning meetings. Also—" he hesitated, "don't look at what's online."

I ignored him, walked straight into my office, and closed the door. I sat down and opened my computer. There were over thirty unread emails in my inbox. I didn't click on any of them. I opened my browser instead.

The trending topics were still up. "The Brooks Family Recognition Banquet Live Coverage," "Daniel's Ex-Wife Turns Out to Be the Brooks Family Heiress," "Midland Elite Family Plot Twist." Each headline more glaring than the last.

I didn't click on those. I opened an industry forum instead. This forum wasn't public—registration required real-name verification, and it was all people from Midland and Shanghai business circles. Usually they discussed mergers and acquisitions, financing, policy trends.

Today's pinned post was titled: "Recognition Banquet Drama Breakdown: What Are the Chances of Daniel and Sophia Getting Back Together?"

My finger stopped on the mouse. I clicked in.

The post already had over two hundred replies.

First comment: "Chances of getting back together? Zero. You all know what Noah is like. His sister was emotionally neglected for three years—you think he'd let her go back? That's delusional."

Second comment: "Let's be honest, everyone knows what Daniel did those three years. If I were the Brooks family, forget getting back together—I wouldn't even open the door if he came to visit."

Third comment: "I was there yesterday. Daniel stood outside the side entrance all night. Didn't go in. Just stood there like a security guard."

Someone replied below: "Hahaha at least security guards have uniforms. He didn't even have a name tag."

"Dying laughing, that Simmons family son called him a receptionist to his face and he didn't dare say a word back."

A string of "hahaha"s went on for over ten comments.

I stared at the screen. My finger didn't move.

Someone posted pictures. Photos from the banquet, not the polished official ones, but ones someone took casually with their phone. The angles were crooked, but the faces were clear.

First photo: Sophia standing by the dessert table, surrounded by three young men. One was bending down talking to her. She had her head tilted, listening, a slight smile on her lips.

Second photo: William with his head lowered, his fingers circling her wrist, helping her fasten a bracelet clasp. Sophia's face was turned to the side, the light falling on her profile.

Third photo: Owen standing on her left, handing her a glass of water. His body was leaning forward, his gaze on her face.

I stared at the second photo for a long time. William standing beside her, his fingers around her wrist. She had her head lowered, her lips curved.

I clicked to enlarge the photo, cropped out William, leaving only her. The champagne-colored dress, hair falling on both sides of her shoulders, that small pearl hairpin behind her ear. She was smiling. Not smiling at the camera, but smiling because William had amused her. It was a light smile, just a curve of her lips, a light in her eyes.

I saved the cropped photo to my desktop. Then closed all the windows. The entire afternoon, I didn't do a single bit of work.

At eight in the evening, I drove home. Not to the Cooper estate, but to the place she and I used to live. I hadn't moved out after the divorce.

I inserted the key into the lock and pushed the door open. The entryway light didn't turn on. The motion sensor was broken.

When she lived here, if anything in the house broke, it would be fixed the next day. I never knew who was managing all that.

I pressed the hallway switch. The light came on. The living room was large. The sofa, coffee table, TV stand—everything was there, nothing had moved.

But on that single chair across the room, where there used to always be an open book, now there was nothing on the seat.

I walked to the kitchen doorway.

She used to start cooking at six every evening. The sound of the range hood would carry from the kitchen all the way to the second-floor study.

I used to find that sound annoying. Now the kitchen was completely silent. The stovetop was wiped clean, with nothing on it. In the corner was a wooden ladle, standing in a holder. She had used that.

I walked in and picked up the ladle. The wooden handle had some wear on it, marks left from long-term use. In three years, she had cooked over a thousand meals in this kitchen. How many had I eaten? Five? Ten? Or fewer?

I put the ladle back, walked out of the kitchen, and went upstairs.

I pushed open the master bedroom door. The bed was large, the comforter neatly folded—the housekeeper had tidied it. In the nightstand drawer was a scarf. It was hers, left behind when she packed her things. I hadn't let anyone throw it away.

I took out the scarf. The fabric had pilled a bit, the color very plain. I lowered my head and smelled it. There was no scent left at all.