Renovia - Read on MistNovel

The familiar quiet of evening settled around me as I finally closed Mira's bedroom door. Four years old, she still insisted on three stories before bed. Tonight it had been two picture books about brave princesses and one rambling tale I'd invented about a cat who could fly. My voice was hoarse, but the soft rhythm of her breathing through the crack in the door made it worth it.

I padded to the living room, sinking into the corner of our cream-colored sofa with a sigh that seemed to come from my bones. The apartment felt too still after the day's chaos: snacks, playground visits, and the endless questions that tumbled from Mira's curious mind. I reached for my phone, thumb already moving in the mindless scroll that had become my evening ritual.

TikTok's algorithm fed me the usual mix: cooking hacks I'd never try, home organization tips that made me feel inadequate, and dance trends I was definitely too old for. I was half-watching, my eyelids growing heavy, when a live stream caught my attention. The caption read "Renovia Street Fashion - LIVE NOW" with a cluster of flame emojis.

The host, a young woman with perfectly styled hair, chattered about autumn trends while the camera panned across a busy sidewalk. I'd been to Renovia plenty of times; it was only an hour's drive from here, with its trendy boutiques and overpriced cafes that made for nice weekend trips. Darian and I had walked those very streets before Mira was born, back when we had time for spontaneous weekend getaways.

My heart stopped.

The camera swept past a couple walking arm in arm, and for just a split second, I caught a glimpse of a man's profile. Dark hair, the same strong jawline I'd traced with my fingers that morning. He wore a white dress shirt and a gray windbreaker. This was the exact windbreaker I'd carefully ironed and hung in our closet two days ago, a recurring favorite of Darian's.

I sat bolt upright, my phone trembling in my hands. The host had already moved on, focusing on a group of teenagers in vintage jackets, but I stared at the screen as if I could will the camera to pan back. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a band around my ribs and pulled.

It couldn't be. Darian was in Canta, three hours away, finalizing a supply contract for Tanum Corporation. He'd kissed me goodbye Wednesday morning, promising to call every night. Today was Friday.

But that jacket, and something about the way the man held himself, confident and familiar, was unnerving.

I fumbled out of TikTok and found Darian's contact, my finger hovering over the video call button. What was I doing? Getting worked up over a split-second glimpse of someone who probably just happened to own the same jacket as half the men in the city?

Still, I pressed call.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Long enough for doubt to creep in, for me to imagine him scrambling to create the right backdrop, the right explanation. When his face finally appeared on screen, though, everything about him seemed normal: warm brown eyes, that easy smile that had first caught my attention seven years ago at a networking event where I'd been the one in the expensive suit and he'd been the charming underdog with big dreams.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, his voice carrying that familiar affection that usually made my stomach flutter. Behind him, I could see the bland beige walls of what looked like a hotel corridor. He wore the white shirt, but no jacket. "What's up? Is Mira asleep?"

"Where are you?" The words came out sharper than I'd intended.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Having dinner with the client. Stepped out to take your call." He shifted, and I caught a glimpse of warm lighting behind him, the kind of ambient glow restaurants used to make everyone look attractive. "Why? Everything okay?"

I studied his face, searching for some tell, some flicker of guilt or nervousness. But Darian had always been unreadable when he wanted to be. It was part of what made him so good at closing deals. "You're in Canta?"

"Of course I'm in Canta." Now he looked genuinely concerned, leaning closer to the camera. "Liora, what's going on? You're scaring me."

The concern in his voice was so genuine, so perfectly pitched, that my certainty wavered. This was Darian, my Darian, who brought me coffee in bed every Sunday morning, who had held my hand through eighteen hours of labor, who still left little notes in my purse when he thought I needed cheering up.

"Nothing," I said quickly. "I just, I missed you. When are you coming home?"

His expression softened, that crooked smile spreading across his face. "Tomorrow afternoon, hopefully. Maybe earlier if this wraps up smoothly." He paused, studying me through the screen. "I miss you too, you know. Both of you. This place is boring as hell without my girls."

The endearment should have reassured me. Instead, it felt practiced, like dialogue he'd rehearsed. But maybe that was just my imagination running wild, fueled by too many late-night true crime documentaries.

"I should let you get back to your dinner," I said.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He tilted his head, and for a moment he looked so much like Mira when she was trying to figure out if she was in trouble that my chest ached. "You seem, I don't know, off."

"Just tired. Long day." I forced a smile. "Go charm your client. Make us rich."

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "Getting richer, you mean. Love you, babe. Kiss Mira for me."

The call ended, leaving me staring at my own reflection in the darkened screen. I looked pale, my dark hair escaping from its ponytail in wispy strands that made me look younger than my thirty-one years, or maybe just more fragile.

I sat there for a long moment, phone heavy in my lap. Darian's explanation made perfect sense. He was where he said he'd be, doing what he said he'd do. The fact that some stranger in Renovia owned the same jacket as my husband wasn't exactly grounds for suspicion.

But as I replayed the call in my mind, small details nagged at me. The way he'd paused before answering, just long enough to think; the restaurant corridor that could have been any hotel hallway; the fact that he'd been wearing the white shirt but not the jacket, though of course he would have taken it off for dinner.

I shook my head, disgusted with myself. This was what happened when you spent too much time alone, when your biggest daily challenge was convincing a four-year-old to eat vegetables. Your mind started creating problems where none existed.

But as I headed toward our bedroom, I couldn't shake the image of that couple on the livestream. The way the woman had leaned into the man's side, comfortable and familiar; the way he'd held her, protective and intimate.

The way Darian held me.

I paused in the doorway of our room, looking at the carefully made bed, the framed photo of our small family on the nightstand, the closet where that gray jacket should have been hanging. Everything looked exactly as it should in the life we'd built together; first as partners in business, then as partners in everything.

So why did it suddenly feel like I was looking at a stage set, perfectly arranged but somehow hollow?

I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, but sleep felt miles away. Instead, I lay there thinking about gray jackets and live streams, about the difference between coincidence and intuition, about the thin line between love and trust.

And about how sometimes, the things that destroy us arrive not as earthquakes, but as whispers.