Chapter 5

No apology.

Not one message asking how my arm was.

The last message was from him, sent fifteen minutes ago:

【Fine, go. Leave the key. You've made enough of a scene. Contact me when you've come to your senses.】

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I deleted his contact. His number. Every connection.

One by one, until they were all gone.

The phone screen went dark, and I could see my own face reflected in it.

Eyes red. Face pale.

Right arm wrapped in bandages. Left arm holding a half-ruined journal.

Not my finest moment. But it was enough.

Cain. This is where it ends.

The next morning, Cain got to the Pack office.

Serena smiled and set his coffee on his desk along with today's schedule.

"Morning. You have a client meeting at three. Want me to prep the deck?"

He made a sound of acknowledgment and picked up his phone to message Wren.

【Did you leave the key at the house?】

Sent. Grey. No read receipt.

He waited ten minutes, then sent another.

【Wren, even if you're upset you have to reply. There's a maintenance check on the plumbing today. If you're home, let them in.】

Still grey.

He pressed his lips together and set the phone down. He went into a meeting.

When it ended, a junior team member walked by with a cup of instant noodles and hesitated.

"Cain — yesterday, your girlfriend's arm. Did she get burned? It looked pretty bad. Did she go to a clinic?"

Cain stopped.

"Her arm?"

He went back through what he remembered of yesterday.

Wren standing at the grill, holding the journal.

The soup pot tipping.

Then her walking away.

In his memory, his attention had been entirely on Serena.

He hadn't looked at Wren's arm even once.

"...She's probably fine."

The junior member looked like he wanted to say something, then took his noodles and left.

Cain went back to his desk and checked his phone again.

Still grey.

He called.

"The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check and try again."

The blood drained out of him.

He called once more.

Same message.

He opened their chat. At the top of the conversation, a banner: "This person has enabled contact approval."

Cain gripped the phone so hard his knuckles went pale.

Serena came over with a fruit plate and saw his expression. She spoke carefully.

"Cain, is everything okay?"

"Get out."

She flinched, frozen in place on her heels.

Cain grabbed his car keys and walked out of the office.

He drove hard all the way to the Pack House.

He squeezed into the elevator before the doors closed.

Got his key. Opened the door.

The living room looked normal.

But the coat rack was bare.

The mint plant she'd kept on the balcony was gone.

Her toothbrush holder had disappeared from the bathroom.

He opened the bedroom wardrobe. The right half was empty.

Only hangers swaying on the rail.

On the bedside table sat a key.

Under the key, a sticky note.

Her handwriting.

【The south-facing room is yours again.】

Cain held the note. His fingers were shaking.

He opened his contacts and found Ivy's number — Wren's college roommate.

Three rings. She picked up.

"You have some nerve calling me."

Her voice was ten times sharper than he'd expected.

"Is she with you? Can you put her on—"

"She's already in the Southern Territory. Seven o'clock flight this morning."

Cain's body lurched. He hit the doorframe.

"Do you know she got burned yesterday? Her right arm. Second-degree. Possible scarring. You were right there—"

She paused for one deliberate beat.

"You say you care about her. You didn't even look at where she was hurt."

The call ended.

Cain slid down slowly and sat on the floor, back against the bedroom wall.

His eyes found the empty drawer.

The year before Wren's grandmother passed, he had visited her family.

The old woman had taken his hand and pressed the journal into his palm.

"After Wren marries you, if you two ever want to cook something, look in here. All my recipes are in there. Keep it safe for her."

He had promised.

And then he had lent it to Serena.

Serena had used it as a prop for her team gathering, torn pages out, spilled chili paste on it, and destroyed most of it.

And he had said: "Was it worth it? Over a journal?"

Cain slammed his hand down on the floor.

Again.

The third time, his knuckle cracked. His hand came up bleeding.

But the pain in his chest made that feel like nothing.

He remembered Wren crouched by the trash, picking up those soaked pages one by one.

Her hands were shaking.

And she never asked him for anything.

Not one word.