Chapter 1 : The Night of the Argument
Eight Months Earlier
The rain had started in the afternoon, and now, close to midnight, it was still beating against the windowpanes.
William Ainsworth was sprawled across the brown leather couch. A cup of tea, long gone cold, sat on the table beside him, and the television had been left on mute. The bluish glow of the screen cast long shadows across the walls.
He heard Valentina's footsteps coming from the hallway.
The same sound he had known for nineteen years.
The same firm footsteps that became faster and heavier whenever she was angry.
"William."
One word.
Just one word, yet it carried the weight of a thousand sentences.
He looked away from the television.
Valentina stood in the doorway. Her brown hair had been hastily tied up, and the traces of dried tears glistened on her cheeks. She was wearing her blue jacket—the same jacket she always wore when she was about to leave the house.
"Where are you going?" His voice was rough.
"To my mother's."
Valentina didn't step into the room. It was as if she had drawn an unspoken boundary at the threshold.
"I'm not staying here tonight."
"Valentina—"
"No."
Her voice was firm, but her hands were trembling.
"Tonight, I have nothing to say. I'm tired. Tired of waiting every night only to see that once again... once again, it's the same."
William looked at the cold cup of tea.
He knew how to defend himself.
He had spent years practicing.
But not tonight.
Tonight, there was something in his chest that wouldn't let him.
"Where's Isabella?"
"She's asleep."
Valentina took a deep breath.
"If she wakes up and sees I'm gone, she'll know I'm at her grandmother's."
William stood up. He set the cup down.
"Let's talk."
"Tomorrow."
Valentina stepped back.
"Tomorrow, when I'm feeling better, we'll talk."
And before William could say anything, he heard the door to Isabella's room open.
Then came the sound of soft footsteps on the wooden floor—the same path she took at night whenever she had a nightmare.
"Mom?"
Isabella Ainsworth, eighteen years old, appeared in the hallway with messy brown hair and sleepy eyes. A small book was tucked under her arm—the one she seemed to carry everywhere these days.
"Come on, sweetheart. We're going to Grandma's, okay?"
"Why?"
"Because... because Grandma is lonely."
Isabella turned her gaze to her father.
It was a look William would never forget—that strange mixture of confusion and something that resembled fear.
Then, quietly, she said,
"Good night, Dad."
"Good night, sweetheart."
The front door closed.
William remained where he was.
The rain was still falling.
He glanced at the clock.
It was 11:47 PM.
He thought he should go to bed.
He thought he should call.
He thought he should put that cold cup away.
He did none of those things.
He simply sat there, listening to the rain, trying to force Isabella's final look out of his mind.
He couldn't.
