Chapter 14
Weeks since Joyce walked out of the house and out of Bradley’s life.
At first, Bradley was calm. Smug, even. He thought it was one of Joyce’s usual tantrums the same ones she’d thrown before. Once, she had stormed out crying, packed a bag, and stayed with a friend for nearly a week. But back then, she returned. She always did. She had nowhere else to go, after all. No money. No one else to rely on. He was sure this time would be the same.
But this time… she didn’t come back.
Each day bled into the next. The house, once full of her silent presence, was now cold and disordered. The laundry piled up. The kitchen was empty. Schedules were forgotten. And the most frustrating part? Bradley couldn’t even get into his own damn library.
She’d set the password–her birthday–and he had never bothered to learn it.
Eventually, in a moment of rage, he ruined the door. Smashed the lock. Tore it off its hinges just to get to the files he needed.
All the while, he kept calling her. Different numbers. Different phones. Voicemails.
No answer. Nothing.
The silence began to eat at him.
The first few nights, he told himself he enjoyed the peace. No nagging. No sighs. No questions. But by the end of the week, that silence felt like a void. The house creaked with absence. Even the air felt heavier. Colder.
Still, Maine was always there.
She fluttered around him with that same youthful energy she used to have in their twenties. She’d moved in without asking, naturally inserting herself into the space Joyce once held. She laughed at his jokes, cooked occasionally though not well, and told him that everything would be fine now.
“Isn’t this what you always wanted?” she asked one night, curled up beside him on the couch. “Me. You. Together. No more quiet housewife with her apron and her soups.”
Bradley nodded vaguely, staring blankly at the television.
Maine continued, her voice soft. “I regretted choosing my career over you. I always did. But now, I’m here. And Joyce? She’s gone. So just let her go, Brad.”
She cupped his face. “Don’t tell me you actually love her. I thought she was just your house nanny. The one who cooked and cleaned.”
Bradley scoffed, the words bitter in his throat. “Of course that’s what she is. Nothing.
more.”
“Then stop calling her,” Maine said, eyes narrowing slightly. “Stop thinking about her. Tomorrow, I’ll hire a new nanny. One that doesn’t give you attitude, one that knows how to do her job.”
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He didn’t argue.
They kissed. It felt familiar, something once wanted. But it felt… off. Like a memory trying to be remade.
The next morning, the smell of cooking drifted through the air.
Bradley, half–dressed and hopeful, wandered downstairs, something in his chest leaping. For a fleeting second, he thought–no, he hoped–it was her.
Joyce.
But it wasn’t.
A stranger stood in the kitchen, wearing a pale apron, awkwardly stirring something on the stove. A young woman with tight hair and a nervous smile.
“Who are you?” Bradley asked, voice rough.
She turned. “I’m the new n
sir. Miss Maine hired me this morning.”
He nodded slowly. Then sat down at the table.
She served him breakfast with a trembling hand. Toast. Eggs. Coffee.
He took one bite–and nearly spat it out.
It didn’t taste right.
It didn’t taste like Joyce’s.
No warmth. No balance. No familiar texture that wrapped around his senses like home.
He shoved the plate aside, scowling.
“Is something wrong?” Maine asked as she entered the kitchen, wrapped in silk.
He looked at her, shook his head. “Nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
He could still remember the way Joyce always cooked–how she chopped the garlic fine, toasted the bread just the way he liked, added a little sugar to his coffee even when he told
her not to.
He missed it.
He missed her.
It
hit him like a slap–he didn’t just miss the things she did. He missed her. Her quiet presence. Her stability. Her care.
And now that she was gone, he realized how much she mattered.
That evening, without saying a word to Maine, he called his men,
“I want you to find her,” he ordered. “Locate her. I don’t care how. Just bring me a location.”
“Sir-”
“Do it now.”
Later, Maine cornered him in the hallway, arms crossed. “What is this? You’re still looking for her?”
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He missed it.
He missed her.
It hit him like a slap–he didn’t just miss the things she did. He missed her. Her quiet presence. Her stability. Her care.
And now that she was gone, he realized how much she mattered.
That evening, without saying a word to Maine, he called his men.
“I want you to find her,” he ordered. “Locate her. I don’t care how. Just bring me a location.”
“Sir-”
“Do it now.”
i
Later, Maine cornered him in the hallway, arms crossed. “What is this? You’re still looking for her?”
Bradley hesitated.
Maine’s expression hardened. “Brad. If you do this, you’ll lose me too. I’m not going to be second choice again. Choose. Her or me.”
He looked at her. For a second–just one second–he almost said Joyce.
But his ego, bruised and bleeding, refused to surrender.
He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Let’s just… get married.”
Maine softened, stepping closer. “Really?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it.‘
She kissed him, but he didn’t feel it.
