Love Unspoken

After banging on the door got her nowhere, Quinn slumped to the floor, exhausted.

She was in a small, cluttered space, pitch dark. The silence was so intense it felt like even the air had stopped moving.

The darkness wrapped around her, making it hard to breathe.

Squatting on the cold ground, she hugged her knees. In the room, the only sounds were her own breathing and her heartbeat.

Alexander had asked her to reflect, but she was at a loss as to what. Was it the five solitary hours she had spent waiting in the restaurant or the fact that she had seen Juliet home? She didn't know what she had done wrong. Quinn fumbled in her pocket and withdrew her phone. It was dead now, unresponsive. Curled up behind the door, she closed her eyes and covered her ears, pretending she was just in her bedroom, and it had simply gone dark.

She was reminded of a time when Freya had also locked her in a storage room like this for an entire day and night. Occasionally, mice and insects would scuttle over her, invoking paralyzing terror in the six-year-old Quinn. The saddest part was that she couldn't even scream out her fear. She could only scrape desperately at the door, scratching until her fingers bled. Yet still, no one came to her rescue.

In the end, it was Alexander who had opened that door, leading her out into the light. It was the first time he held her a memory that never faded, the warmth of his embrace still vivid. She could still recall the scent of sun and a hint of mint, the quintessence of youthful spirit.

He had guided her back into the depths, returning her to the very origin of her turmoil.

The image of the young man, once vivid in her mind, began to fracture. As Quinn recalled her past in fragmented flashes, a sensation akin to an invisible grip tightened around her heart.

Phantom insects seemed to burrow into her memories, leaving her gasping for breath. In desperation, she tugged at her collar, struggling for air as her heart pounded and her breathing grew more strenuous.NôvelDrama.Org content.

Collapsed on the floor, she weakly tapped the door, clinging to the remnants of hope. Gradually, her efforts diminished to a mere shuffle. Meanwhile, Alexander had already departed, unaware of the desperate pleas emanating from the storage

room.

On his way to the office, when Abigail called unexpectedly, he merely glanced at the phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

After many unanswered rings, Abigail's brows furrowed. Deep down, she understood that Alexander wouldn't take her call.

In defiance, she pounded on the door once more, calling out, "Hobart, Hobart!" with a voice that pierced the silence. Hobart, the butler, hastened upstairs, arriving at the door with a demeanor of solemn respect, "Miss, how may I be of service?"

"Where's my brother? Call him. I need to speak with him!" Abigail demanded.

"Oliver hasn't returned yet, miss. There's no point in wearing yourself out. Even when he does come back, he won't let you leave," Hobart replied.

Furious, Abigail shouted, "Call him right now, or I'll jump from the third floor!" Hobart, knowing she might actually do it, tried to calm her down before rushing to call Oliver. Oliver was with a client when Hobart's call came in. He pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance, excused himself from the meeting room, and dialed Abigail back.

"Abigail, can't you just stay put for a few days? Dad ordered you to be locked up. There's nothing I can do."