Free Web NovelChapter 123: Chapter 123 A Silent Simmer
Sylvia’s POV
I don’t know how long I stood frozen in the doorway before finding my voice to ask that question. The scene before me—Caesar holding Helena in what looked like an intimate embrace—burned itself into my retinas.
Caesar immediately tried to explain. "She fell. I was just helping her up."
"Yes, look at my face,Sylvia," Helena added, pointing to a small red mark on her cheek. "I got hurt from the fall."
My eyes reluctantly moved to examine the reddish mark on Helena’s face.
There was indeed evidence of some kind of impact.
Only...
"So you just happened to fall right outside our bedroom door?" I asked, my voice laced with biting sarcasm.
How convenient. Almost too convenient that she’d "stumbled" at the exact moment I was finishing my shower.
Credit where it’s due—the woman had timing down to a science.
I almost wanted to hand her a trophy for Best Supporting Actress in a melodrama she clearly wrote herself.
Caesar’s eyes narrowed slightly as he said in a measured but firm tone, "That’s enough, Sylvia. Let her go back to her room."
I blinked at him, stunned. "So you think I’m being too hard on her?"
The disbelief in my voice wasn’t subtle—because neither was his bias.
That was a defense. For her.
Even Helena looked up at him, her eyes lighting up with saccharine surprise.
"Thank Moon goddess you’re here, Caesar," she said with a practiced little smile. "Remember when we were kids, and I broke the neighbor’s window? You took the blame for me. You always took care of everything..."
Her voice dipped into something dangerously tender, and her gaze stayed locked on him like he was her personal fairy tale ending.
I let out a cold, humorless laugh.
So that was the dynamic now? They were the nostalgic, star-crossed pair, and I was just the awkward plot twist in their perfect little reunion?
"That’s it, Helena," Caesar said flatly, his voice stripped of all warmth. "Go back to your room—while I’m still being civil."
But Helena, never one to exit quietly, turned up the dramatics like she was auditioning for a soap opera.
"But Caesar," she said sweetly, "I think I’ve twisted my ankle. And my face—do you think it’ll scar?"
"Please," I scoffed, unable to hold back the laugh. "Stop trying to win an Oscar. If your injury’s that bad, I’m sure even the ER would send you home with an eye roll."
"What do you mean?" Helena asked, genuinely puzzled—as if sarcasm had flown right over her head like everything else.
That was Caesar’s breaking point.
"Go back to your room," he said sharply. "There’s a first aid kit in the cabinet by the living room. Use it."
But even as she finally turned to leave, dragging her foot just enough to keep the act going, I couldn’t shake the unease settling in my chest.
Her eyes lingered on Caesar just a little too long.
Her smile held something old and unfinished.
She hadn’t moved on. Not even close.
And suddenly, it all made sense.
The reason she was still here. The reason he hadn’t sent her away.
It had all been orchestrated. Calculated.
Long before I even realized I was playing someone else’s game.
I felt a bitter chill crawl up my spine.
There’s no such thing as "just friends" between a man and a woman—not when one of them is still in love.
And I had the scars to prove it.
After Caesar closed the door, he noticed my still-dripping hair and grabbed a towel. "Sylvia, lie down. Let me dry your hair for you."
"No need," I replied coldly, not even bothering to look at him properly—as if he were a complete stranger.
I came out of the bathroom angry—and now I was flat-out hostile.
Caesar knew what was bothering me and tried to explain. "Sylvia, between me and her, we’re just—"
"Don’t," I snapped, cutting him off before he could go any further. "Whatever excuse you’re about to make—I don’t need to hear it."
Caesar reached for my hand, and I pulled away like his touch burned.
"There’s nothing between me and Helena," he said, voice tight. "She’s just a friend—she’s always been just a friend."
I let out a short, bitter laugh.
"Yeah? Then maybe you should remind her of that, because clearly she didn’t get the memo."
The words lingered in the air like smoke—sharp, acrid, and impossible to ignore.
He opened his mouth again, probably to offer another version of the truth I didn’t want to hear, but I was done.
I wasn’t going to stand there and dissect his intentions while Helena’s perfume was probably still clinging to his shirt.
So instead, I turned to the bed, pulled back the covers, and said, a little too casually, "Like I said—I’m sleeping here tonight."
Caesar didn’t respond right away.
He just stood there, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.
His eyes flicked toward me, then away, like he was weighing whether to argue or simply surrender.
In the end, he swallowed hard and said, "Suit yourself."
His voice was flat, but something behind it cracked—like tired glass under pressure.
He walked to the other side of the bed, movements slow and deliberate, as if even gravity was working against him.
He lay down without a sound.We didn’t speak. We didn’t touch.
A single blanket between us might as well have been a wall.
The air felt dense, like it couldn’t decide whether to hold heat or tension.
When the lights went out, the silence only got louder.
Caesar turned his back to me, his breathing steady but not relaxed.
I knew he wasn’t asleep—just like I wasn’t.
I stared at the ceiling, replaying every second from earlier like a crime scene on loop.
We lay side by side, inches apart, hearts on opposite ends of the planet.
Morning came, but nothing changed.
Just two cups of coffee on the counter and a silence that stretched between us like a tightrope. We moved around each other like strangers who used to know the same language but had forgotten how to speak it.
The tension didn’t explode—it calcified. Quiet. Heavy. Permanent.
Our standoff remained at a silent simmer—unresolved, unspoken, and entirely in the way.
So I did what I’ve always done when things get too hard to feel—I buried myself in work.
The new project became my lifeline, a convenient excuse to avoid messy conversations. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com
Between back-to-back strategy meetings, late-night calls with John, and nonstop coordination with our overseas partners, I barely had time to breathe, let alone reflect. ƒгeewёbnovel.com
Home became more of a concept than a place.
Some nights I crashed on the office couch.
My assistant started bringing me a change of clothes in the morning without even asking—just another silent acknowledgement of how deep I was in.
It wasn’t sustainable, but it was effective. At least for now.
