Chapter 2: The Smile That Never Asked for Anything

The penthouse was too quiet.

Aidan stepped in behind Clara, his steps soundless against the Italian marble floors. The warmth of the ballroom, the shimmer of lights and glasses clinking—gone. What remained was the ghost of a name neither of them had dared say aloud too often these last three years.

Siena.

Aidan watched as Clara placed her clutch on the console and slowly took off her earrings. She didn’t glance at him. She never did, unless he spoke first. Her poise was pristine, her calm unwavering, as if tonight had not cracked something beneath her skin.

He loosened his tie, his throat tightening for a reason he couldn’t place. “I didn’t know she’d be there.”

“I believe you.”

She said it with a small smile.

Not a sarcastic one. Not wounded. Just... quiet acceptance.

And that hurt more.

Aidan nodded, pacing toward the bar. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, then paused, remembering how Siena liked hers. It annoyed him that the memory was so easy to summon.

When he turned, Clara was already walking toward the hallway.

“Clara.”

She stopped.

He hesitated. “About tonight—”

“There’s nothing to explain,” she said gently. “She was important to you. Of course her return would affect you.”

“You handled it well.”

She smiled again, turning to face him this time. Her hands were folded in front of her like they often were when she felt too much. “I was just being polite.”

“She made a scene.”

“No. She made an entrance. And she still owns part of your heart, doesn’t she?”

Aidan looked away, jaw clenched. “It’s not that simple.”

Clara tilted her head, her voice soft. “It never is.”

She didn’t accuse. Didn’t question. Didn’t cry.

And somehow, that gentleness—her refusal to demand anything—pressed on Aidan’s chest like guilt.

He didn’t know what she wanted. She never asked.

When Siena left, he had stood at the altar, humiliated and broken. When he offered his name to anyone who would take it, Clara had stepped forward.

They had been strangers. Still were, in many ways.

But she had become a fixture in his life. Someone who always made sure his clothes were ready before a board meeting. Someone who stayed up when he came home late, just to leave a warm dinner on the table. Someone who loved him quietly.

He’d always thought she was just... kind.

But tonight—seeing her standing there beside Siena, calm, poised, lovely in her own way—he realized he’d never really looked at her.

Until Siena looked at her first.

Clara shut the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it, pressing her eyes closed.

She wouldn’t cry.

Tears were for girls with expectations. She had none left.

Three years ago, she married Aidan Hart knowing he didn’t love her. He hadn’t even looked at her once until the moment she stepped forward in front of hundreds of guests. Even then, he hadn’t smiled.

But she had loved him long before that. From the back row in college lectures. From stolen glances at café tables he never noticed. From the shadow of Siena’s perfect silhouette.

She had watched him build empires, destroy competitors, and still speak to his mother every Sunday without fail.

And she had stepped forward that day—not because she thought he’d love her.

But because he looked like a man about to fall.

Now, watching him look at Siena like she’d resurrected something inside him... Clara realized how foolish she’d been to think love could grow in silence.

But she would not break. Not tonight.

She changed into her cotton nightgown, removed her makeup, and lay on her side of the bed.

He would come in late. He always did when he was unsettled. And Siena’s return would unsettle anyone.

Even a man like Aidan Hart.

Aidan stood outside the bedroom door for a long time before finally pushing it open.

Clara was awake. Of course she was. She always was.

She didn’t speak when he entered. She didn’t ask questions. She simply reached over, turned off the lamp on her side, and let the darkness stretch between them.

He lay beside her, but it felt like miles.

“Do you want to talk?” he asked.

She shook her head, her voice calm. “You don’t owe me explanations, Aidan. I know what this marriage was. I’ve never forgotten.”

Something about the way she said it—soft, dignified, final—made his throat dry.

“You deserve better than this.”

“I never expected anything.”

He turned toward her, though she faced the other way.

“That doesn’t mean you don’t want something,” he said, more harshly than he meant.

She smiled into the darkness. “Wanting and deserving aren’t always the same thing.”

He closed his eyes.

For the first time in three years, he felt the distance. Not from obligation. Not from silence.

But from her choosing not to lean in anymore.