Chapter 7 The Quiet Between Us

The silence in the penthouse was almost sacred. It wrapped around the space like a cocoon soft, expensive, and impenetrable. Outside, New York blinked with a million lights, none of which could reach the kind of stillness that Loraine Thorne crafted within the walls of her abode. Every detail, from the tall fiddle leaf fig tree by the window to the curated art pieces along the hallway was intentional. Her sanctuary. Her fortress.

There was no Damien Thorne here.

Loraine slid off her heels the moment they entered the penthouse, her sigh quiet but heavy. The dinner had drained her. Damien's voice still echoed in her ears, wielding his praise like a whip and his criticism like a branding iron. Beside her, Michael dropped his overnight bag gently by the side table and rolled his shoulders sleeve.

"Well," he said, loosening the buttons on his shirt, "that was... warm and traumatizing."

Loraine huffed a soft laugh as she sank into the velvet couch. "As warm as sitting under a heat lamp in a lion's den."

"I can't believe I was excited for dinner. A few months away and I have forgotten how Damien Thorne is."

"Dinner with my grandfather is almost always draining and traumatizing."

Michael moved toward the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of whisky, then looked at her in silent question. She shook her head. Not tonight.

The maid emerged from the hallway and dipped her head. "Madam, I've drawn you a bath."

"Thank you, Anuli," Loraine replied, voice low. She tilted her head back, eyes closed. The leather creaked under her. All she wanted to do was relax. No such thing, not with another person in the room.

Michael walked over, crouching beside the couch. His hand found hers, fingers warm against hers. "You know, if we start now, the bathtub would be the perfect place to make that grandchild Damien is so desperately campaigning for."

Her eyes opened, amused. "If I ever have a child, Michael, it won't be because Damien Thorne willed it into existence over roasted duck and wine."

"I won't give him that satisfaction."

Michael chuckled, leaning in, his breath brushing her cheek. "Okay, scratch the grandchild part. Can we at least talk about us?"

The amusement faded. Loraine slipped her hand away, picked up her tablet from the table, and powered it on. The screen glowed against her face. "I'm exhausted, Michael. Let's table this. We can always discuss this tomorrow."

"You always say that," he said, voice quiet but pointed. "You're always too tired, too busy, or conveniently distracted." He gestured at the tablet.

She didn't answer, her eyes fixed on the screen, scrolling through unread emails. The sound of silence between them grew louder than Damien's insults.

Michael stood and crossed his arms. "So what exactly are we doing, Loraine? We've been together four years. Four. You're telling me you don't know if this is serious enough to move forward?"

She sighed, still not looking up. "Why is this suddenly urgent?"

"Don't tell me Grandfather has gotten to you."

"No, this isn't about Damien. I'm not going to keep being in limbo. I gave up my life in Los Angeles. I moved across countries for you. I sit through dinners where your grandfather sizes me up like I'm one of his failed acquisitions. And what do I get in return?"

Loraine looked up now, expression unreadable. "You get this life, Michael. You can live and go anywhere you choose to. You drive cars from a different continent every quarter. You vacation in villas with names the average person can't pronounce. Don't tell me you're some sacrificial lamb."

"Don't you stand there and tell me you are not gaining anything."

Michael's jaw tensed. "I knew you'd say that."

"What do you want me to say, Michael?" she asked, voice rising. "That I'm ready? That I'm suddenly going to become a wife and start pushing out children because everyone expects me to? I've fought too hard to become who I am. I'm not throwing that away for anyone, you included."

He moved a step closer, slower this time. "Then please, be honest with me. If you don't see a future with me, just say it. I am an adult, I can handle it."

There was a pause. Heavy. Loaded.

Loraine opened her mouth, but a shrill ringtone shattered the moment.

She answered it immediately, grateful for the interruption. "Loraine Thorne speaking."

Michael watched her, frustration written in every line of his body. "Seriously? We're not done..."

Her face changed stopping him in his tracks.

Eyes that had been sharp and fiery just seconds ago dimmed, blinked, and then widened. "What? When? How?"

Michael's voice faded out as he watched her turn to stone. She stood slowly, the tablet forgotten on the floor, her hand clutching the phone tighter as if bracing for impact.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," she said, and ended the call.

"Loraine?" Michael asked, his voice more cautious now.

She looked at him, her face pale beneath her bronzer. "Something's happened."

"What is it?"

Her lips parted, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, she walked past him, toward the bedroom. Her heels clicked sharply on the marble, the only sound in the echoing quiet.

Michael didn't follow immediately. He stood there, uncertain, watching the door she'd disappeared through.

And for the first time, he wondered if their connection whatever remained of it was hanging on by the thinnest thread.