The first thing Daniel broke that morning wasn’t glass.
It was the peace.
Drawers slammed. Papers flew. Folders emptied onto the floor like confetti from a bad celebration. His phone was pinned to his shoulder as he paced the living room, panic sharpening his voice.
“It has to be here,” he snapped. “It cannot be missing today.”
From the kitchen doorway, Amara watched with quiet caution, her hands still wet from rinsing rice. She knew this version of Daniel well—the one whose stress turned into sharp words and careless blame.
“Daniel,” she said gently, choosing her steps like someone crossing thin ice. “Tell me what you’re looking for. I’ll help.”
He whirled toward her.
“Don’t,” he said flatly. “Just don’t.”
The room tightened. Silence felt safer than speaking.
“I’m going to be late,” he muttered, shaking a stack of documents. “This presentation decides everything. And you’re just standing there.”
“This is my home too,” Amara replied, calm but steady.
His eyes were tired from chasing success. Sweet to strangers. Cold to the person who waited for him. The distance between them hadn’t happened overnight—it had grown quietly, like something forgotten until it takes over a room.
“What did you do with it?” he demanded.
“With what?”
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