This time, there were no words–just a photograph.
It was a picture of Philip, fast asleep.-
He was curled around Viola from behind, holding her tightly in his arms, both of them lost in deep slumber.
Viola wore a bashful, dreamy smile. Her lips were swollen, and the open collar of her nightgown revealed a trail of bruised kisses that disappeared down her neck and chest.
There was no need to guess what had happened last night.
In the five years they’d been together, Philip and Celeste had never crossed that final line.
When he couldn’t restrain himself in the early days, Philip would hold her close, his voice rough and pleading. “Celly, can’t you just grow up a little faster?”
But later, he never touched her that way again. He’d only comfort her, promising, “After we’re married, I’ll make you mine.”
She’d always thought it was tenderness. That it was love.
But isn’t desire just another side of love?
Celeste stared at the photo, tears streaming down her face as if someone had gouged a piece of her heart away, leaving nothing but raw, bleeding pain.
After lunch, she made her way to the neighboring villa.
She crossed the specially built skybridge, gazing down at the riot of blooms in the garden below–flowers everywhere, yet all she could feel was emptiness.
She and Philip had bought these two houses outright after closing a major deal together.
The deeds were in her name.
Philip used to say that everything he owned belonged to her. “What’s wrong with putting your name on it? he’d ask with a smile.
He even had a private garden and skybridge built to connect the two homes. “That way, if you ever get upset and want to run home to your family, you only have to go next door,” he’d tease. “As long as I can look up and see you, I’ll feel at ease.”
15:04
Chapter 3
Now, even though she was right in front of him, day after day, he hadn’t truly i at her in ages.
She keyed in the entry code and pushed open the door. The sprawling villa was unfurnished, designed instead as a gallery. In every display case was a piece of her mother’s life’s work–rare and beautiful ceramics.
Years ago, she had carefully placed each one inside, entrusting her past and her future to Philip.
Now, one by one, she would pack them up with her own hands, and take her future back.
Her fingers traced the custom glass doors of the display cabinets, pausing at the largest one.
Inside, the pieces weren’t beautiful–misshapen, uneven, each one unique.
Every year, on the anniversary of her mother’s death, Philip would take her to a pottery studio.
“Don’t be sad, Celly. I’ll help you make your mom’s favorite things. She’ll know how much you miss her. She’ll know you’ll be okay.”
Celeste hadn’t inherited her mother’s talent.
When she first started, she couldn’t even shape a lump of clay.
Back then, Philip wasn’t “Mr. Robertson” with his fancy suits and open wallet.
He’d stoop and plead with the studio owner, just so she could lose herself in the rhythm of working clay, letting her grief pour out her fingertips.
Over time, she improved. But the time–and patience–Philip gave her grew less and
less.
She opened the cabinet and took out the prettiest painted jar.
Their names were scrawled on it in childish, colorful letters, with a big red heart in
the center.
She remembered Philip holding her hand as she wrote the words, kissingt tip of her ear, his voice low and teasing.
“Now your mom has given her approval. You can’t go back on it, okay?”
A bitter smile tugged at Celeste’s lips.
All the things she’d treasured–every perfect memory–had become a punchline.
150411
Her grip loosened. The painted jar slipped from her hand, smashing against the floor with a sharp crack, shards flying across the polished wood
Like rainbow–hued bubbles of memory, her happiness burst and vanished, carried away on the wind.
By the time she finished packing and loading everything into the car, it was nearly four in the afternoon.
She called the real estate agent, walked him through the place, signed every document, agreed on the price, and told him to put it on the market next Monday
