The Silent Storm
I stared at the photograph on my phone screen. The young waitress—her name was Chloe, as the tabloid headlines were so eager to reveal—was walking up the limestone steps of Willow Creek Mansion, holding a worn canvas suitcase. My former home. The home I had helped decorate, where every painting and vase had been chosen by my hands.
My phone rang again. Ethan.
I finally picked up, placing the phone to my ear without saying a word.
“Amelia? Thank God,” Ethan’s voice sounded frayed, completely devoid of his usual controlled composure. “Did you see the news? Did you see what they’re saying about the company’s shares? The board is losing their minds. They’re calling me ungrateful, a traitor to the woman who funded his first startup.”
“Is that why you called, Ethan?” I asked, my voice as calm as a still lake. “Because of stock prices?”
“No—well, yes, but Amelia, Chloe is here,” he stammered, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. “She just showed up with her bags. The press followed her. I didn’t invite her to stay! I told her to give me time!”
I let out a soft, almost imperceptible laugh. “You traded twelve years of quiet devotion for a sudden storm, Ethan. You made your bed. Now sleep in it.”
“Amelia, wait—”
