Chapter 11: Distance and Avoidance After that night, I rarely took the initiative to speak to Lucas anymore. The discovery of Phoebe in our home, wearing Lucas's shirt after using our shower, had broken something in me-a fragile hope I hadn't even realized I'd been nurturing. For months, I'd been telling myself that our growing closeness meant nothing, that I was merely adapting to life with a man who would eventually leave me for someone else. But somewhere along the way, I'd started to care. To hope. And hope, as I was brutally reminded, was a dangerous thing. I began waking up earlier each morning, slipping out of our shared bedroom before Lucas stirred. I'd have my coffee and be gone before he made it downstairs, leaving only a faint trace of my perfume behind. In the evenings, I'd stay late at the studio, burying myself in client projects until Victoria would finally insist I go home. "You're working yourself into the ground," she said one night, leaning against my desk as I reviewed fabric samples for the third time. "What's going on with you and Lucas?" I kept my eyes on the swatches. "Nothing's going on." "Bullshit. You've been here until nine every night this week. The Autumn I know would be home having dinner with her ridiculously hot husband." I glanced up at her, managing a thin smile. "Just busy. The Blackwell project is behind schedule." Victoria clearly didn't believe me, but she let it drop. That was one of the things I appreciated most about her-she knew when to push and when to back off. The weekend after the incident with Phoebe, I made a more deliberate move. Lucas had a board meeting in Chicago, leaving early Friday morning and returning late Saturday night. I took advantage of his absence to pack up my things from the master bedroom and move them back to the guest room-my original room from when we first married. I made an excuse about wanting to give Mrs. Jenkins, our housekeeper, some time off, and sent her away for the weekend with generous pay. Then I carefully removed all traces of my presence from Lucas's space. My toiletries from the master bathroom. My books from the nightstand. The silky robes that had hung beside his suits in the walk-in closet. I even changed the sheets, replacing them with fresh ones that didn't carry my scent. When Lucas returned on Saturday night, I was already in bed in the guest room, pretending to be asleep when I heard him call my name softly from the hallway. He tried the door-I'd left it unlocked-but didn't enter. Just stood there for a long moment before his footsteps retreated to the master bedroom. The next morning, I was up at dawn, dressed and ready to leave by six. I was pouring coffee into a travel mug when Lucas appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair disheveled from sleep, wearing only pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips. The sight of his bare chest, lean and muscled, made my throat go dry despite my best intentions. "Morning," I said, my voice carefully neutral as I screwed the lid onto my travel mug. "You're up early," he observed, his eyes tracking my movements. "Again." I nodded, grabbing my keys. "Client meeting." "On Sunday?" His tone was skeptical. "The Blackwells are only in town for the weekend." A convenient lie. Lucas stepped further into the kitchen, blocking my path to the door. "What happened to your things?" So he had noticed. Part of me had wondered if he would. "I moved back to my room," I said simply. "I thought it would be better." "Better for whom?" I met his gaze steadily. "For both of us." He studied me, his expression unreadable. "Is this because of what happened with Phoebe? Because I already explained-" "I need to go," I interrupted, not wanting to hear his explanation again. I already knew the story-Phoebe had been drinking, Lucas brought her back out of concern, nothing happened. It didn't matter whether it was true. The look on his face when he'd reached for her in his sleep-that had told me everything I needed to know. I moved to step around him, but he caught my arm, his grip firm but gentle. "Autumn. Talk to me." For a moment, I almost wavered. The genuine confusion in his eyes made me wonder if I was overreacting, if I'd misinterpreted everything. But then I remembered how easily he'd slipped into protectiveness when it came to Phoebe. How naturally he'd comforted her at the hospital. How, even after all these months together, he still looked at her with a tenderness he'd never shown me. I pulled my arm free. "I may be living in your place, spending your money, wearing the clothes you bought, but if you think that means you can control my life, then you're mistaken." The moment the words left my mouth, I realized they echoed his own warning to me that day at the hospital, when I'd suggested he check on Phoebe. The irony wasn't lost on either of us. Lucas's expression hardened, then something like resignation passed over his features. Before he could respond, his phone rang. He glanced at it, frowning. "I have to take this," he said, already answering the call as he stepped away. "James, what's the situation?" I took the opportunity to slip past him and out the door, relief and regret warring in my chest as I escaped to the elevator. For the next week, we continued this strange dance of avoidance. I'd catch glimpses of Lucas watching me, his brow furrowed in confusion or frustration, but he never directly confronted me again. When he tried to engage me in conversation, I'd respond with polite disinterest, keeping my answers brief and impersonal. If he texted me during the day, I'd respond selectively-answering practical questions about dinner plans or social obligations, ignoring more personal inquiries about how I was feeling or when I'd be home. By the second week, even the densest man would have realized something was wrong. And Lucas Bailey, whatever his faults, was far from dense. So when I returned from work one evening to find him sitting in the darkened living room, a tumbler of scotch in his hand, I knew the confrontation I'd been avoiding had finally arrived. "What's wrong with you?" he asked without preamble, his voice low and tight with controlled anger. I set my portfolio down, taking my time before answering. "Nothing's wrong." "Don't lie to me." He stood, moving into the pool of light cast by the floor lamp. His face was haggard, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hadn't been sleeping well. "You've barely spoken to me in two weeks. You moved out of our bedroom. You're gone before I wake up and you come home after I'm asleep." "I've been busy," I said, the excuse sounding hollow even to my own ears. "Bullshit." He set his glass down with enough force that the scotch sloshed over the rim. "What's been going on lately? Did I do something? Say something?" I looked at him, suddenly tired of the pretense. "I think we both know this arrangement has run its course, Lucas." His expression froze. "What are you talking about?" "This," I gestured between us. "Whatever we've been doing these past months. Playing house. Pretending." "Is that what you think we've been doing? Pretending?" His voice was dangerously quiet. I moved toward the stairs, unwilling to continue this conversation. "I need to pack. I have a business trip tomorrow." He stepped in front of me, blocking my path just as he had in the kitchen that morning. "No, you don't get to walk away from this. We're talking about it now." "There's nothing to talk about." "The hell there isn't!" His composure finally cracked. "You've been shutting me out for weeks, and I want to know why!" I stared at him, a surge of anger rising in me. "Why do you even care? You've made it perfectly clear where your priorities lie, Lucas. And it's not with me." Understanding dawned in his eyes. "This is about Phoebe." "No, it's about us. About the fact that in less than six months, our two years will be up, and you'll be free to go back to her. So what's the point of..." I trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "The point of what?" he pressed. "Of getting any closer. Of pretending this is anything other than what it is-a business arrangement with an expiration date." Lucas ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognized as a sign of frustration. "Is that all this is to you? A business arrangement?" I didn't answer. Couldn't answer, because the truth was too raw, too vulnerable to admit. "Look," I said instead, "I have a client in Riverdale who needs me to oversee a major renovation. I'll be gone for a few weeks." "A few weeks?" He looked genuinely shocked. "You never mentioned-" "It just came up. Victoria was supposed to handle it, but she twisted her ankle yesterday." This, at least, was true. "I'm stepping in." Lucas studied me for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe me. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. "No matter what it is, we'll talk about it slowly when you get back," he said, his tone suggesting this was non-negotiable. I nodded, not taking his words to heart, and headed upstairs to pack. The next morning, as my flight took off for Riverdale, I felt a strange mixture of relief and emptiness. I was running away, and I knew it. But sometimes, retreat was the only form of self-preservation available. As the plane climbed higher, I pulled out my phone to put it in airplane mode and saw that Lucas had already texted me several times. The last two messages read: [Address.] [I'll come pick you up.] I hesitated, then typed a reply: [No need, I'll be back in a couple of days.] His response came almost instantly, as if he'd been waiting with his phone in hand: [Okay, I'll wait for you to come back.] I stared at those words for a long time before finally switching my phone off. Whatever Lucas Bailey meant by them-whether simple courtesy or something deeper-I wasn't ready to examine too closely. A few days, I'd told him. But as the plane leveled off above the clouds, I already knew I wouldn't be going back that soon.