The air inside the private room was thick with the kind of silence that follows a storm. The laughter, the teasing, the chaos—all of it had drained away, leaving behind a strange stillness that pressed against the walls.
The scent of spilled champagne lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the low hum of the club’s music that filtered through the closed door.
Draven was the first to move. He glanced at Layton, his expression unreadable, and spoke in a low, even tone.
"Let’s go. There’s no point staying. Anything you say now... she won’t believe it. Talk to her another day."
Layton didn’t respond. He stood there, motionless, his gaze fixed on the woman across the room.
Mindy didn’t look back.
She sat with her legs crossed, her posture relaxed, her expression calm—too calm. The faintest trace of a smile lingered on her lips, but it wasn’t for him. It was the kind of smile that came from exhaustion, from finally being done with something that had once mattered too much.
One by one, the others began to leave.
Missy lowered her head, her lashes trembling delicately, but beneath that practiced fragility, hatred burned bright. Her nails dug into her palms until the skin whitened. Mindy... she thought bitterly. Mindy... Just wait.
Jagger hesitated at the door. He looked back once, his expression conflicted. He didn’t understand what he was feeling—anger, guilt, confusion, maybe all of them at once. For years, he had believed the version of events Missy had fed them. Now, watching Mindy’s quiet composure, he wasn’t so sure anymore.
Mike followed behind the others, his steps careful, his face neutral. As he passed Mindy, he fought the ridiculous urge to give her a thumbs-up. Miss Mindy, he thought, that was amazing. President Knight got completely roasted. But professionalism won out. His salary came from Layton, after all.
Layton was the last to move. He stood near the doorway, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor. His eyes lingered on Mindy, searching for something—anger, regret, even a flicker of the affection she used to have for him. But there was nothing.
She didn’t even glance his way.
Instead, she lifted her hand lazily, her voice calm and detached.
"Don’t forget. Tomorrow. 9:00 am sharp."
Layton’s jaw tightened. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words refused to come. After a long moment, he turned and walked out.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
The sound was final.
The moment it shut, Ana burst into laughter. "Oh my God!" she gasped between fits of giggles. "Did you see his face? Priceless! Absolutely priceless!"
The five handsome men joined in, their laughter filling the room again. Someone grabbed the karaoke microphone, another popped open a new bottle of champagne.
Within seconds, the room was alive once more—music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses replacing the tension that had suffocated them moments ago.
Mindy smiled faintly, letting the noise wash over her. The confrontation was over. The weight that had pressed on her chest for years had finally lifted.
But somewhere down the hall, a man walked away in silence, carrying a heaviness he couldn’t name.
The black Maybach glided through Greendale’s glittering streets, its tinted windows reflecting the city’s neon lights. Inside, the silence was suffocating.
Mike sat in the passenger seat, his hands folded neatly in his lap. Draven sat beside Layton in the back, his gaze fixed on the passing lights outside.
No one spoke.
The hum of the engine was the only sound that filled the cabin.
Layton’s reflection stared back at him from the dark window—sharp suit, expressionless face, eyes that revealed nothing. But beneath that calm exterior, something restless stirred.
Minutes passed before Draven finally broke the silence.
"I have one question," he said quietly.
Layton didn’t look at him. "What is it?"
"You never filed the divorce papers," Draven said. "So what exactly were you thinking?"
Mike’s head lowered slightly. He didn’t dare turn around, but curiosity flickered in his eyes.
Layton’s answer came after a long pause. "I never intended to divorce her."
Draven frowned. "Then why hand her the papers?"
"I only wanted to stop her from making scenes," Layton said, his tone calm, almost detached.
"I thought if I mentioned divorce, she would calm down. I knew she loved me. I knew she would never leave me. I never expected her to sign them."
Draven stared at him, disbelief flickering across his face. "So you tried to scare her," he said slowly. "And now she actually wants to leave."
Layton said nothing.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Draven leaned back, exhaling softly.
"You know what everyone in Greendale thinks?" he asked.
"They think you’re in love with Missy. You never corrected anyone. You took her to every banquet, every charity gala, every business dinner, every auction. You stood beside her everywhere. You treated her differently. I’ve never seen you treat Mindy that way."
Layton’s gaze remained fixed on the window. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white as the car sped through the night.
Draven’s voice softened. "If you don’t love Mindy, let her go".
"She looked genuinely happy tonight. I’ve never seen her smile like that. I’ve never seen her laugh like that either."
Layton’s expression didn’t change, but inside, his thoughts refused to stay quiet.
Happy.
The word echoed in his mind like a foreign language.
He closed his eyes.
Images flickered behind his eyelids—Mindy laughing as she danced with Ana, her crimson dress swirling like firelight.
Mindy singing on stage, her voice soft and aching, her eyes lifted toward the ceiling as if speaking to someone far away.
Mindy smiling, radiant and free, without once looking at him.
And then her voice, calm and steady, cutting through the noise of his memory.
"President Knight."
Not Layton. Not once.
He had become a title to her. A stranger in a tailored suit.
Another memory surfaced, sharper than the rest.
"For the first time since I was born," she had said, "I feel disappointed in myself for loving you."
His fingers tightened against his knee.
Disappointment.
That word lingered, heavy and familiar.
He had known disappointment long before Mindy ever said it. Not because someone had explained it to him, but because he had lived with it.
His father, Joseph Knight, had been a man of power and indulgence. The kind of man who believed loyalty could be bought and affection was a weakness. There had always been women—secretaries, models, socialites.
His mother, Sonia Mori, had once been beautiful and kind, but years of humiliation had hardened her into something cold and distant.
There had never been warmth in the Knight household. Only appearances.
His grandparents had practically raised him.
They were strict, proper, and emotionally absent in their own way.
As a child, Layton had waited for his father’s attention, but it never came. He had wanted his mother’s affection, but she had none left to give.
Somewhere along the way, he had simply stopped expecting love.
Routine. Order. Peace. That was enough.
He had built his life around those three things.
When he married Mindy, the penthouse had become quiet.
Meals appeared on time.
His clothes were pressed and ready every morning.
The lights stayed on when he worked late.
Someone always waited for him when he came home.
He had never questioned it. He had simply accepted it as normal.
Now, for the first time, the thought of that quiet penthouse made his chest ache.
He could already imagine it—walking through the door to find the lights off, the air still, the faint scent of her perfume gone.
No soft footsteps in the hallway.
No gentle voice reminding him to eat.
No warmth waiting for him at the end of the day.
He told himself it was the routine he missed. The order. The peace.
But deep down, he wasn’t sure anymore.
Draven glanced sideways at him. He had known Layton since high school.
He recognized that distant look—the one that meant Layton was thinking, really thinking.
Draven leaned his head back against the seat, his eyes half-closed. He understood loneliness better than anyone.
His own childhood hadn’t been much brighter.
His father, Marcus Mole, had been a name whispered in fear throughout Greendale. A man with connections to the underground world, a man whose reputation cast a long shadow over his family.
Children had avoided Draven. Parents had warned their sons not to play with him. No one wanted to be associated with Marcus Mole’s son.
Back then, Draven had no friends. Not one.
Until the day everything changed.
He still remembered it vividly.
It had been a gray afternoon, the kind where the sky looked like it was holding its breath. He had taken a shortcut through a narrow alley on his way home from school.
The air smelled faintly of rain and garbage. That was when five older boys cornered him.
They mocked his father. They mocked his family. Then they started hitting him.
Fourteen-year-old Draven had fought back as hard as he could, but he was badly outnumbered.
His fists connected with flesh, but there were too many of them. A punch landed against his jaw, another against his ribs. He stumbled, tasting blood.
Just as another blow was about to land, a calm voice echoed through the alley.
"Five against one?"
The voice was steady, almost bored. "Pathetic."
The boys turned.
At the entrance of the alley stood a tall teenager in a crisp school uniform, a stack of newly purchased books tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable, his posture relaxed.
Layton Knight.
One of the boys sneered. "This has nothing to do with you."
Layton set his books down carefully on the ground. "It does now."
Someone recognized him immediately. "Wait... isn’t that the Knight family’s heir?"
The five boys exchanged uneasy glances. They wanted to continue, but none of them dared offend the future heir of Knight Enterprises. After a few muttered curses, they backed away and disappeared down the street.
Draven had stood there, breathing hard, his uniform torn, his face bruised. Layton picked up his books without a word.
"You should get stronger," he said simply.
Draven frowned. "What?"
Layton looked at him, his tone calm but firm. "If people only fear your father, they’ll never respect you. But one day, if you become stronger than all of them, they’ll fear saying your name."
He picked up his bag. "Don’t let other people decide who you are."
Then he walked away.
Draven had watched him go, the words echoing in his mind long after the sound of Layton’s footsteps faded.
From that day onward, he had only one friend. Layton Knight.
And tonight, for the first time since high school, Draven wasn’t sure his best friend knew what he was doing anymore.
He turned his head slightly, studying Layton’s profile. The man who had once been so certain, so composed, now looked... lost.
Whenever Layton became this quiet, it meant he was thinking. Really thinking.
Draven didn’t interrupt. Some answers, a person had to find alone.
The Maybach continued through Greendale’s glittering streets. Outside, the city pulsed with life—neon signs flickering, cars rushing past, laughter spilling from late-night cafés. Inside the car, the silence was absolute.
Layton’s reflection stared back at him from the window, his own eyes hollow.
For the first time in years, he questioned something he had always taken for granted.
He had believed love was unnecessary. That affection was a distraction. That control was enough.
But now, as the car moved through the sleeping city, he realized something he couldn’t quite name.
It wasn’t love he feared.
It was the silence that came after it was gone.
And for the first time in his life, Layton Knight didn’t know how to fill it.