The study room was spacious, long and wide—the kind of room that swallowed sound. A solid oak table dominated the center.
Lucas sat there, hunched over his assignment, a pencil tapping rhythmically against paper. Not far off, Diana slept soundly in her crib by the couch, her chest rising and falling in complete peace.
Natalia sat at her own study desk, her fingers moving steadily across the keyboard. From where she was positioned, she could see both of them—her son working diligently, her daughter sleeping softly. Typing had been daunting at first, exhausting and dry, demanding more focus than she initially thought she had. But she had persisted. It was starting to click now; the keys felt familiar under her fingertips, and she could feel herself improving. The realization made her sit a little straighter, a quiet wave of pride washing over her. She was learning hard things from scratch—common beginner drills, proper finger placement, how to structure words—and she was actually getting better at it.
"Mummy, I don't understand this explanation," Marcus said, padding over to her with his workbook.
Natalia shifted in her chair, looking first at the book, then down at her son.
"Mum's going to teach you. Come here," she said, pulling him gently onto her lap. Marcus climbed up, more than glad to be taught by his mother.
Natalia set her book open on the table, scanning the text to synthesize the information before turning to him.
"This is quantitative reasoning. You have to use the numbers to get your answer, whether through addition or multiplication," Natalia explained, pointing to the page. "Even when some operations aren't explicitly written out, it requires you to think."
Marcus paid close attention, following her lead. As Natalia studied the math puzzle more closely, she realized the question was a bit tricky for a child of his age—almost designed to trip students up. She continued breaking it down, glad she had the capacity to do this: to teach her son, read alongside him, and explain complex concepts clearly to make things easier for him.
Meanwhile, Marcus's gaze kept drifting to his mother's laptop. Though she was working, the screen was filled with charts and dense text, looking like a puzzle of its own. He could see how hard his mother was working.
"This is it, Marcus," she said softly, tapping the page to bring his attention back. Natalia knew her son was naturally curious about the computer, and with a soft smile, she realized that one day he would have to learn this software too. She was glad she could offer him a foundational glimpse of it.
"Here, Marcus," she murmured, her eyes holding a warm, understanding look as she guided him line by line through the next problem.
That afternoon, Catelyn, dressed in a sweeping peach dress, walked toward the diner with Victoria—a tall, slender woman with a distinctly graceful air, clad in chic overalls. They carried themselves with an effortless sophistication as they stepped inside.
"The weather's lovely. My favorite," Victoria said, her tone edged with casual superiority as they took their seats. Catelyn set her bag on the table beneath the cloudy yet pleasant afternoon sky.
"Yes, it's nice," Catelyn replied mildly.
"You know, I'd usually be out jogging by now," Victoria informed her, smoothing her lap. "I keep to my routine. It's good for me."
"Yes," Catelyn murmured, thinking of her own distinct workout regimen.
At the mention of routines, Victoria's thoughts naturally shifted. "You and Silas—are you two getting back together?" The question slipped out, sharper than intended.
Hearing that, Catelyn realized she didn't even know. "I don't think so," she said airily, refusing to give it any more weight. She simply didn't have the time or energy to dwell on it.
"Wow. I thought you two were inseparable. I honestly thought it would never end," Victoria said, genuinely stunned. The sudden split between the two seemed almost impossible to believe, and she felt a strange pang of sympathy for what they had thrown away.
Catelyn knew Victoria had a point. She and Silas had shared a deep affection and built something genuinely good. She also knew she hadn't always been fair—she had threatened to break up with him several times before. But this time, it was final.
Victoria could easily tell her friend had no interest in dissecting the breakup. "You know, I'm absolutely famished," she said smoothly, changing the subject.
A waiter approached, and both women placed their orders.
"Are we still heading to the spa?" Victoria asked, taking a sip of water. "Or should we go to the resort instead? What do you think?"
"The resort's fine," Catelyn replied.
Victoria watched her closely across the table. Catelyn was smart, pretty, and effortlessly charismatic—all the reasons Victoria had kept her close since their college days. They eased into light small talk, finished their meal, and left for the resort.
At Rosa's Club, Silas sat on a barstool, restless and tense. He nursed his drink, his mind wandering to the upcoming holidays and the thought of visiting his parents; his mother would be elated to see him. But then Catelyn slipped back into his thoughts. What was she doing? Was she okay? What would become of everything they had shared? He missed her—longed for her embrace, her smile. She had been his anchor, and an ache blossomed in his chest. Were those years together supposed to mean nothing just because she had ended it like this?
His gaze drifted across the room to a waitress. It was Elsa, a woman of moderate height with rich brown hair pinned neatly in a bun. He could make out her sharp profile from where he sat.
She was mid-service when an older man in his forties abruptly shoved cash down the front of her top—a degrading, unprompted gesture.
Elsa's jaw clenched. Silas saw the whole thing. The action was aggressively disrespectful, crossing a line that made her stomach turn. What does he think I am? Some cheap whore? Embarrassment burned through her, instantly overtaken by a surge of pure fury.
Silas took a slow sip of his drink, his own irritation flaring up. a sudden wave of disgust tightening his chest. The man's action was utterly uncalled for—crude, degrading, and deeply embarrassing to witness. He didn't like it one bit; it crossed a line that left a bitter taste in his mouth, it was completely uncalled for. He couldn't quite explain why it bothered him so intensely, but it did.
Elsa's expression flickered with humiliation before she turned sharply and walked away with her tray.
Life's already bad enough, she thought bitterly. Jordin had been sleeping with her. And now this. The money wedged against her chest felt like a cruel brand, cementing how cheap she felt. Maybe I am. Maybe that's what I am if I let Jordin use me like this.
Silas watched her leave, his jaw tight. The man's behavior was appalling, plain and simple. He tried to shake the irritation off, but it lingered, heavy and unsettling.
By evening, the sky had turned ink-black.
Back at her apartment, Elsa sat heavily on the edge of the bed before sliding backward, staring blankly at the ceiling. She couldn't shake the image—that man tucking dollars into her clothes like a sleazy tip, the way his eyes had roamed over her. It had poisoned her entire spirit.
And then there was Jordin. The memory of him washed over her in a suffocating wave of guilt. She knew it was wrong. Five times now. God, what is wrong with me? Am I just a slut? How did I let things get to this?
Her body felt numb. I'm selling myself for pieces of silver. Why did I let this happen?
She had to end it. That was the only choice left to reclaim a shred of her dignity.
Days later, Elsa sat behind the counter at work, staring blankly at the rows of bookshelves.
Sleeping with Jordin had happened; taking his money had happened. But she wasn't some pathetic creature who traded her body for cash. She had done it because she was stupid, because she had momentarily thought it might lead somewhere secure.
Well, she didn't care about building romantic entanglements anymore. People had their own agendas. She was fine on her own. Completely fine.
Her colleagues were no different—distant, functional, keeping to themselves. Nothing more, and nothing less.