Vivienne's POV

The latch settles with a tiny click as he leaves, and in the hush it lands like a shot. I don’t move. I just stare at the patch of floor where he was standing seconds ago, like if I keep looking hard enough he’ll reappear.

“It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not.”

His voice keeps replaying, sharper every time. I’ve spent days building this room into a statement—handpicked fabrics, curated pieces, the kind of careful perfection ...