My Coldhearted Husband'S Regret novel Chapter 34

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34 Familiar Rooms, Silent Tensions

34 Familiar Rooms, Silent Tensions

Elara’s POVO

Exhaustion weighed on me as I trudged down the hallway towards the living room. My mind buzzed with questions about Damien’s sudden appearance and his silence regarding Julian and Vivienne.

The living room was dimly lit with just a single lamp illuminating the space. Damien sat on the leather couch, his attention fixed on his laptop screen. The blue light cast harsh shadows across his face, making his features appear even sharper than usual.

I stood at the threshold, waiting for him to acknowledge my presence. One second passed. Then another. Nothing.

“Damien?” I finally broke the silence.

He didn’t look up. His fingers continued to move across the keyboard without pause. I might as well have been invisible.

The familiar sting of being deliberately ignored twisted in my chest. After all these years, it shouldn’t hurt anymore. But it did.

I turned away, deciding against confrontation. What was the point? We were getting divorced anyway.

As I headed toward the stairs, a small voice called out from above.

“Mommy?”

Coco stood at the top of the staircase in her pale pink pajamas, her stuffed rabbit clutched tightly against her chest. Her face looked flushed even in the dim light.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I rushed up the stairs.

When I reached her, I placed my hand against her forehead. It was warm-too warm.

“My tummy hurts,” she whimpered, leaning into me.

I scooped her into my arms, surprised by how light she still felt despite growing so

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much in the past year. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

As I carried her to her bedroom, I heard movement downstairs. Damien had finally decided to pay attention.

“What’s wrong?” His deep voice echoed from the bottom of the staircase.

“She’s running a fever again,” I replied without turning around.

I tucked Coco back into bed and took her.temperature. 100.3°F-not dangerously high, but concerning nonetheless.

“Can I have soup?” Coco asked in a small voice. “The chicken noodle one you make?”

My heart melted at her request. “Of course, sweetie. I’ll make it right now.”

When I turned to leave the room, I almost collided with Damien standing in the doorway. He’d moved silently, as always.

“I’ll sit with her while you make the soup,” he said, his voice unusually soft.

I nodded and slipped past him, careful not to make contact.

In the kitchen, I gathered ingredients on autopilot: chicken, celery, carrots, onions. The familiar routine was comforting. I diced vegetables with practiced precision, the knife making clean cuts against the wooden board.

Twenty minutes later, the soup was simmering on the stove, filling the kitchen with a warm, homey aroma. As I stirred the pot, I sensed Damien’s presence before I saw him.

“She’s asking for you,” he said, leaning against the kitchen island. “And the soup.”

“It’s almost ready.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between us. There were so many things we needed to discuss-Julian, Vivienne, the divorce-but neither of us seemed willing to broach those subjects.

“I’ll bring up two bowls,” I finally said. “She might feel better if we eat with her.”

To my surprise, Damien nodded. “I’ll help you carry them.”

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34 Familiar Rooms, Silent Tensions

When we entered Coco’s room with the soup, her face brightened despite her illness. “You’re both eating with me?”

“Yes, princess,” Damien replied, setting his bowl on her nightstand.

soup

We ate in strained silence, broken only by Coco’s occasional comments about the being “the best medicine.” The domesticity of the scene was painfully familiar-the three of us together, sharing a meal. It was an echo of what our life was supposed to be.

After dinner, Coco looked significantly better. The color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes were brighter.

“Can you stay with me tonight, Mommy?” she asked as I tucked her in. “Like when I was little?”

I stroked her hair gently. “Of course I will.”

Damien collected our empty bowls. “I’ll take these downstairs.”

When he left, I realized I needed to get my pajamas from my suitcase. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart. I’m just going to get changed.”

I headed to the guest room where I’d left my luggage, but to my confusion, it wasn’t there. After checking the other guest rooms with no success, a chilling realization dawned on me. Slowly, I walked toward the master bedroom-our bedroom-and pushed open the door.

The room was exactly as I remembered it. Clean, pristine, with my side of the bed untouched. My reading glasses still sat on the nightstand alongside the novel I’d been reading before I left. My slippers waited by the foot of the bed.

It was as if I’d never left.

I walked to the closet and pulled open the door. All my clothes hung neatly in their designated spaces. My jewelry box sat on the dresser, untouched. Even my half-used bottle of perfume remained in its exact spot.

My heart raced as confusion washed over me. Why had Damien kept everything exactly as it was? Was it for appearances? To avoid explaining my absence to Eleanor? Or was there another reason I couldn’t fathom?

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