CHAPTER 173: WHISPERS ABOVE THE MUSIC

"Why is it taking him so long to wake up?" Abigail muttered under her breath, her gaze fixed on the man lying before her.

Roman’s chest rose and fell in an infuriatingly calm rhythm — slow, steady, unbothered.

The dim amber light from the bedside lamp bathed his skin in gold, drawing sharp lines along the sculpted planes of his face.

Even in unconsciousness, he looked powerful — a man born for command, his presence almost oppressive even now.

Abigail sat at the edge of the bed, one hand supporting her chin, the other drumming impatiently on her thigh.

Her dark hair shimmered faintly, the loose strands brushing across her cheek every time she exhaled.

"Huff," she sighed, her voice sharp in the silence. "Now my work will be delayed again." Her brows furrowed, frustration pulling at her features.

The scent of Roman’s cologne — subtle, expensive, and masculine — lingered faintly in the air, wrapping around her senses until she found herself inhaling deeper than she intended.

"Even asleep, you manage to irritate me," she muttered, though her tone wavered between bitterness and something dangerously close to longing.

With a soft exhale, Abigail lowered herself onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight.

She turned to her side, resting her head on her hand as her gaze roamed over his face.

The steady rhythm of his breathing filled the quiet room, mingling with the faint hum of the air conditioner.

For a long moment, she simply watched him — his dark lashes casting faint shadows on his cheekbones, the faint flicker of his pulse visible near his throat.

Her lips curled into a slow, almost wistful smile.

"Had they not given me that huge amount of money..." she began softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I wouldn’t have accused you back then."

Her words hung in the air like confession and mockery intertwined. Her fingers reached out tentatively, tracing a slow line along the edge of his collar.

The warmth of his skin seeped through the thin fabric, making her hand tremble slightly — not from fear, but from something far more complex.

Her throat tightened. A shadow crossed her expression — regret, fleeting and fragile — before her eyes hardened again, her mouth twisting into something bitter.

She laughed quietly to herself, a hollow sound. "But I suppose money always talks, doesn’t it?"

Her gaze softened again as she leaned closer, so near that her breath brushed against his cheek.

"But don’t worry," she whispered, her tone dipping into a dark tenderness. "I won’t let you suffer for losing me again, love."

The last word rolled off her tongue like a curse disguised as affection.

Her hand slid from his collar down to his chest, resting over the slow, steady beat of his heart.

The rhythm thudded beneath her palm — strong, unwavering. It made her jaw tighten.

"You never even looked at me properly back then," she murmured, studying his face.

"You and your perfect world... your perfect wife..." The words came out in a whisper edged with venom.

Abigail’s expression changed again — her eyes softening for just a second as she brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "But now you’re here. With me. And she’s nowhere near to stop it."

She smiled faintly, her lips curving like the edge of a knife.

Her perfume mingled with the faint scent of Roman’s skin, creating something intoxicating in the air — something that blurred the line between hate and desire.

The silence thickened, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall.

Outside, faint sounds of laughter and music filtered from the distant hall, reminders of the life still pulsing through the mansion.

But inside this room — everything was still. Stiflingly still.

Abigail’s eyes lingered on Roman’s face, her thoughts a storm behind her composed expression.

She leaned forward slightly, whispering one last thing, her voice low and cold:

"This time, I’ll make sure you never wake up the same."

Meanwhile, the mansion pulsed with quiet chaos. What was once a sanctuary of elegance now throbbed with subdued tension.

The marble floors, polished to perfection, reflected flashes of movement as guards and maids swept through the corridors, their hurried footsteps echoing beneath the golden light of the chandeliers.

The air carried a low hum of urgency — whispers, hurried instructions, the faint rustle of skirts brushing against the walls as they passed.

Lisa led the way, her stride purposeful and composed, yet her eyes betrayed the storm beneath.

Her voice was calm but cutting through the tension like a blade as she gave directions to the staff.

"Check the eastern rooms again. Abigail might be hiding there with him."

Her tone held authority — the kind that left no room for question.

Two maids immediately bowed their heads and disappeared down the adjoining hallway, their lanterns bobbing like small orbs of gold in the dim expanse.

Denovan followed closely behind, his tall frame tense, his usually composed expression shadowed by anger and dread.

Every muscle in his jaw was drawn tight, his eyes scanning the halls with barely contained fury.

"If she’s done what I think she has..." he muttered under his breath, the words coarse with restrained emotion.

Lisa’s gaze slid sharply to him — not of reprimand, but silent control. One look from her was enough to halt him mid-thought.

He exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling in a heavy breath, then resumed his pace beside her.

Azazel trailed a few steps behind them, unusually quiet.

His usual playfulness was gone, replaced by a grim stillness that hung about him like fog. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles pale.

Every so often, his eyes darted toward the corners, the shadows, the half-open doors — places where danger could be lurking.

The grand estate that once felt open and luxurious now seemed to close in on them — its silence heavy, its beauty suddenly oppressive.

Every portrait on the wall, every flickering light, seemed to watch.

"Nothing in the west hall," one of the guards reported, appearing breathlessly from the other side of the corridor.

His uniform was slightly disheveled, his face glistening with sweat. "The rooms are empty, ma’am."

Lisa nodded curtly, dismissing him with a gesture.

Her expression didn’t falter, but a subtle tightness at the edge of her lips betrayed her concern.

They pressed on, their footsteps soft but unrelenting against the glossy floor.

The scent of polish and faint traces of lavender oil — a signature of the Thompson household — hung in the air, doing little to mask the growing unease.

Denovan paused by one of the arched windows, the night spilling in through the glass in a wash of cold blue light.

His reflection stared back at him — stern, unsettled.

The sound of his gloved fingers tapping against the glass echoed faintly, rhythmic and tense.

"Half the guest wing," Lisa said quietly, glancing at her watch. "And still nothing."

Her tone remained composed, yet her eyes flickered — a rare sign of worry slipping through the cracks of her calm exterior.

Azazel’s gaze swept across the length of the hallway ahead — endless, gleaming, and eerily still.

The shadows stretched long under the chandeliers, flickering faintly as if disturbed by an unseen presence.

He swallowed hard, feeling the faint prickle of unease crawl up the back of his neck.

The deeper they moved, the more oppressive the silence became. Somewhere far off, a door creaked.

One of the guards turned sharply toward the sound, hand instinctively brushing the side of his holster.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Lisa lifted her hand slightly — a silent command.

They advanced again, quieter this time, their movements measured and deliberate.

The mansion seemed to breathe with them — walls whispering, air thick with anticipation.

Every echo, every shifting shadow felt like a sign they were getting closer.

And somewhere beyond those gilded halls, hidden behind locked doors and heavy silence — Abigail’s soft whisper drifted through the air, mingling with the pulse of the night.

On the other side of the mansion, the music from the main hall had softened into a muted rhythm — a faint hum of violin strings weaving through the air like a ghost of celebration that no one truly felt anymore.

The chandeliers shimmered faintly, their light spilling across polished floors and gliding over the edges of velvet drapes that swayed slightly in the draft.

Julie sat in a quiet corner near one of the carved pillars, her posture stiff, her hands locked loosely in her lap.

The world around her continued — laughter, murmurs, the clinking of glass — yet all of it seemed far away, muffled behind the fog of her own thoughts.

Her face, usually soft with quiet grace, was pale beneath the warm glow.

Her lips pressed together as though holding back the tremor inside her chest.

Beside her, Ava shifted uneasily. She could feel Julie’s silence like a weight pressing between them.

Her friend hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved for minutes that felt like hours.

Ava’s hand reached out hesitantly, resting on Julie’s back in gentle circles.

"Julie, calm down, okay? Everything will be fine," Ava whispered, her tone tender but trembling.

There was no answer. Julie’s shoulders remained still beneath her touch, unmoving, like she hadn’t even heard her.

Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere ahead — on nothing, on everything — the flicker of candlelight caught in her eyes, dull and unfocused.

Ava leaned closer, her own heart tightening. "Julie, please talk to me," she murmured. "You’re scaring me with this silence."

The moment lingered between them, stretched thin by the quiet. Then, at last, Julie blinked.

Her eyelashes fluttered, her lips parting just slightly. Her voice came out soft, almost fragile, but every word carried the weight of her thoughts.

"Ava..." she began slowly, her gaze drifting toward the marble floor.

"Do you think Roman would ever sleep with another woman because I didn’t allow him to do it with me?"

The question broke the stillness like a whisper slicing through glass.

Ava froze. Her hand slipped slightly from Julie’s back, her breath catching mid-inhale. "You didn’t?" she asked carefully, disbelief mixing with concern.

Julie’s head turned toward her, her expression calm on the surface, but her eyes — those deep, searching eyes — trembled faintly, betraying the storm beneath.

She gave a small, deliberate shake of her head. "We didn’t," she said quietly. Her voice didn’t waver, but something about the firmness of it made it hurt even more.

Ava’s lips parted, then closed again.

For a heartbeat, she simply stared at her — as if searching for something to say, something that wouldn’t sound wrong.

Then a small sigh escaped her. "Hm..." she hummed under her breath, a sound of both thought and hesitation.

Her eyes softened. Then, as though a decision had just formed in her chest, she rose to her feet with sudden, quiet resolve.

The soft fabric of her gown whispered against the marble floor. "Come with me," she said.

Julie blinked up at her, confusion knitting across her brow. "Where are we going?" she asked, her voice hushed, fragile.

Ava didn’t answer. She only extended her hand, her expression gentle but firm. And despite her uncertainty, Julie took it.

Together they rose and began to walk — their steps slow but steady as they crossed the hall.

The staircase ahead stretched upward like a bridge into silence.

As they climbed, the distant chatter of guests faded behind them, replaced by the soft echo of their heels on marble.

The chandeliers overhead shimmered faintly, their crystals catching the dim light and scattering it over the bannisters like fallen stars.

"Where are we going?" Ava murmured again, glancing around at the corridors that curved into quiet darkness.

"Come," Julie replied softly. Her voice had steadied, though her expression remained unreadable.

She led the way down the hall — her movements graceful but marked by a quiet urgency that even Ava could feel.

They stopped at the end of the corridor, in front of a tall door carved with intricate gold designs.

Julie hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing the handle. Then she pushed it open.

Inside, the air was still — almost too still.

The scent of sandalwood lingered faintly, blending with the cool night breeze slipping through the slightly open window.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn halfway, the silence deep and steady.

They both sat down beside each other, the cushions sinking beneath their weight.

For a while, neither spoke. The quiet pressed between them again, but this time it wasn’t empty — it was heavy with questions.

"Julie," Ava began finally, her voice cautious but sincere, "I know it’s not my place, but... can I ask you something?"

Julie turned her head slightly and nodded, wordless.

"Why didn’t you do it with him?" Ava asked softly, her tone fragile, uncertain. "Don’t you love him enough to?"

Julie’s eyes dropped to her hands resting in her lap. The silence that followed was louder than any music still playing downstairs.