Guinevere thought she had finally adjusted to the silent tension between her and Weston, but suddenly, the suffocating quiet around them reminded her of how much they had drifted apart. It was as if they had nothing left to say to each other.
In the past, she could ignore the growing gap between them, brushing aside the truth of their disconnection. But with Ella’s sudden appearance, it felt like the final straw that had broken the camel’s back.
She stared at Weston, who sat next to her, his expression hard and unyielding. It was as though nothing could stir his cold, stony heart. He had always been this way—quiet, reserved, and impossible to read. Back then, she had been drawn to the mystery in his eyes, but now, she found herself resenting the emotional wall he had built between them.
Unable to endure the silence any longer, Guinevere decided to be the first to speak.
“Don’t you have anything to tell me?” she asked, her voice steady but tinged with frustration.
It had always been like this. She was the one constantly accommodating, always compromising, following Weston’s lead. He had never changed for her, never met her halfway. The realization made her heart sink. She had always thought he was indulgent, that he pampered her, but in reality, how many times had he actually done something for her?
Weston looked at her, his voice calm as ever. “What do you want me to say?”
Guinevere’s lips twisted into a bitter smile at the expected response. “Don’t you think Ella looks uncannily like a particular person?”
Weston looked at her, his gaze cool, and asked, almost casually, “Who do you think she resembles?”
“Weston!” Guinevere’s voice trembled with emotion. “I don’t want to play games with you. I just have one question: Do you blame me?”
Her voice faltered as she asked, her heart pounding. “Do you believe what Stella said before she jumped off that building? Do you think I was the mastermind behind those people, and do you blame me for causing her death?”
The more she spoke, the more agitated she became. But Weston merely looked at her, his brow furrowed in a faint sign of concern.
“You’re overthinking things,” he said, his voice flat.
“Then why have you been treating me so coldly and indifferently these past few days?” Guinevere’s voice cracked as she pressed him.
Weston gave her a long, steady look. “I’ve always been like this.”
He glanced at her, his tone firm as he emphasized, “This isn’t the first day you’re getting to know me.”
“Yes, that’s right. You’ve always been like this…” Guinevere murmured, dazed. Her shoulders slumped as she sank back into her seat, the weight of his words sinking in. She covered her eyes with her arm, trying to stop the tears from falling. “You’ve always been like that. You’ve never changed. What exactly has changed, then?”
There was no response. Not from Weston. Not from anyone.
It was as if no one could answer her. The silence in the car was deafening, and Weston, who had grown distant, simply turned his attention to the documents in his hands, ignoring her outburst.
Guinevere took a few deep breaths, trying to regain her composure. She wiped her eyes, straightened herself up, and restored her usual demeanor as the car pulled into the mansion.
When they arrived, Guinevere glanced at the time. “It’s already past ten. I wonder if Zack is asleep.”
Zack was the only topic left between them that felt safe to discuss, and Guinevere clung to it, perhaps for the hope it might bridge the growing divide. Though they were no longer married, she still thought of him as part of the family, especially because of their son. She clung to the hope that their marriage was only a matter of time.
Hearing Zack’s name, Weston finally broke his silence. He glanced at his watch. “He should be asleep by now.”
“It’s alright,” Guinevere replied with a smile. “Even if he’s asleep, I’ll have the nanny carry him out. He’ll cry and fuss at night anyway. It’s better if we keep him awake for a while now. It might help him sleep more soundly.”
Weston furrowed his brow, considering her suggestion.
“I can come by to see him tomorrow,” he said, his voice distant as he stood up and walked toward the stairs.
Guinevere’s eyes darkened slightly, and she followed him upstairs. “Why don’t we go to his room and see him without waking him up?” she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice.
Her son would be turning one in a few months, and although she was still sleeping in a separate room from Weston, she didn’t want to miss any opportunity to spend time with him. Even if it meant seeing Weston, even if it was painful, she needed those moments with her child.
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