Eurydice stared at the door long after it had closed.
Eliza Moreau was gone.
But the tension she left behind still sat heavily in the room.
It clung to the air, thick and suffocating, pressing against Eurydice’s chest in a way she couldn’t quite explain.
She wasn’t mad.
Or at least, she didn’t want to be.
Because what reason did she have?
It wasn’t like Conrad owed her anything. It wasn’t like she had any right to feel this weird, twisting sensation curling in her stomach.
But she did.
And that just annoyed her more.
Conrad let out a low exhale, rubbing a hand down his face as if the entire interaction had drained him.
“Well,” he muttered, breaking the silence, “that was exhausting.”
Eurydice let out a sharp laugh, crossing her arms. “Oh? And here I thought you enjoyed dramatic reunions with ex-fiancées.”
Conrad shot her a look. “Santiago.”
“What?” She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying. The tension? The history? The whole unfinished business vibe? You could’ve charged tickets for that performance.”
Conrad’s jaw ticked.
“I don’t have unfinished business with Eliza,” he said coolly.
Eurydice arched a brow. “Oh? So she just dropped by for coffee?”
Conrad exhaled sharply, walking toward the bar cart to pour himself a drink. “You’re being impossible.”
Eurydice scoffed. “And you’re being suspiciously defensive.”
She wasn’t sure why she kept pushing.
Why she wanted a reaction.
Why she cared so much about his answer.
But before Conrad could respond, before she could even begin to unpack whatever the hell was happening with her emotions—
The doorbell rang.
A distraction.
A very welcome distraction.
Eurydice turned toward the door, grateful for the interruption.
But when she opened it—
Her stomach dropped.
Because standing there was a delivery man.
And behind him?
A very, very familiar package.
The moment the gallery crate was carried inside, Eurydice felt her entire mood shift.
She knew exactly what it was.
The painting.
The one from the exhibit.
The one she had spent far too much time thinking about, dreaming about, aching over.
Once upon a time, it had captivated her.
It had drawn her in, made her want to unravel its mysteries, to understand why it had spoken to her so deeply.
But now?
Now, she couldn’t even look at it.
The deliveryman turned to Conrad. “Where would you like it, sir?”
Before Conrad could answer, Eurydice spoke first.
“Send it back.”
Both Conrad and the deliveryman froze.
“…What?” Conrad said slowly.
Eurydice’s arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“I said, send it back,” she repeated, her voice sharp. “I don’t want it.”
Conrad’s brows furrowed. “You spent half the exhibit staring at that painting.”
“Well, now I don’t care about it,” she snapped.
Silence.
Conrad studied her. “This isn’t about the painting.”
Eurydice let out a hollow laugh. “Oh? And what exactly do you think it’s about, Montague?”
Conrad didn’t answer.
Not immediately.
Instead, he took a slow step toward her, hands in his pockets, gaze calculating.
“You’re upset,” he observed.
Eurydice scoffed. “You think I’m upset?”
“I know you are.”
She hated that he said it so easily.
So calmly.
Like it was a fact.
Like he knew her that well.
Her nails dug into her palm.
“I don’t have time for this.” She turned to the deliveryman, voice clipped. “Take it back.”
Before the man could move, Conrad spoke again.
“Leave it.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
But it was final.
The deliveryman hesitated, glancing between them.
“…Uh. I can come back later?”
Conrad nodded. “Do that.”
Once the door shut behind him, leaving the two of them alone, Eurydice let out a frustrated groan.
“You are infuriating.”
“And you’re avoiding something,” Conrad countered, arms crossed.
Eurydice turned away, not trusting herself to look at him.
Not trusting herself to think too much.
She focused on the painting instead.
The one she had once wanted so badly.
And yet, now, when it was finally here—
She felt nothing.
Only frustration.
Only unease.
Only that stupid, annoying feeling she still couldn’t name.
So, she did the only thing she could do.
She walked away.
For the next few hours, Eurydice did everything she could to shake it off.
She tried sketching.
She tried watching something mindless.
She even tried baking, hoping the simple routine would distract her.
But none of it worked.
Because no matter how much she ignored it, the tension only built.
It followed her.
Lingered in the air.
Wrapped around her thoughts.
And the worst part?
So did Conrad.
Because every time she passed him in the house—
Every time their eyes met—
Every time his expression remained unreadable—
It only made it worse.
Because ignoring something doesn’t make it go away.
It only makes it louder.
Eurydice had barely left the room before Conrad let out a soft chuckle.
Because she was mad.
Even if she didn’t want to admit it.
And that meant something.
Didn’t it?
He glanced at the painting, running a hand through his hair.
Then—
His smirk faded.
Because now that he thought about it…
Why had he bought it in the first place?
And why did it bother him so much that she no longer cared?