Love Unspoken

She dashed into the Villa and locked herself in her room. Alexander stayed outside for a bit, waiting until the last bits of trash stopped burning before heading in.

Inside, Quinn was curled up on the floor, hugging herself and staring blankly out the window.

As dusk settled, Alexander came in. He gently opened the door and crouched in front of Quinn, who was huddled in the corner.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

Quinn averted her gaze, refusing to meet his eyes. After a moment of silence, he reached out, his fingers gently ruffling her hair. "Your birthday's coming up. How about we celebrate it together?" he suggested.

She hesitated, glancing at Alexander. Quinn didn't know her real birthday. Ulysses had picked the day she arrived at The Kennedys as her birthday. It hit her then it had been twenty years since she first came to The Kennedys. Alexander, noting her subdued reaction, took her hand and gently pulled her to her feet. "Let's go out for dinner and get you some new clothes," he proposed.

With her head bowed, Quinn found solace in the familiar comfort of his presence. He was always there to mend her broken heart, piece by piece. His affections, no matter how insignificant they seemed, were a tenderness she couldn't resist. After all, he was all she had.

As she followed Alexander to the garage, she paused at the passenger side of the car. The memory of Getty sterilizing it with disinfectant flashed in her mind.

"What's wrong?" Alexander asked, noticing her hesitation.

She looked up at him, vulnerability etched in her eyes. "Am I dirty?" she asked.

Alexander held her gaze, her pain and helplessness reflected in her eyes. After a moment, he looked away and guided her towards a different car. "Let's take this one," he suggested.

He knew everything. He knew how Getty's actions had wounded her, yet he had done nothing to intervene. He had allowed Getty to hurt her, and she was never his top priority.

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Quinn climbed into the passenger seat of the rarely used Porsche, its exterior coated in a thin layer of dust.

Dinner wasn't as intimate as she hoped. Alexander was glued to his phone, leaving Quinn feeling like she was talking to herself.

After the meal, Alexander purchased an array of clothes for her, filling the entire trunk. There were dresses and casual attire. Their dressing room was crammed with her clothes, while his were sparse and scattered. His clothing seemed oddly out of place in the room. It was as if he didn't belong in her world.

By the time they returned home, it was already ten at night. Alexander retreated to his study, leaving Quinn lying awake, restless.

Abigail had sent her numerous messages, inquiring if she had received the paintings. Quinn couldn't bring herself to confess that she hadn't seen them before Alexander had reduced them to ashes.

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Abigail reminded her that the world wasn't solely about Alexander-there were countless beautiful things and wonderful people out there. She encouraged Quinn to take care of herself so she could better love her baby. "Look at those paintings. There are blue skies and oceans, majestic mountains with streams, and the most beautiful you. They'll lift your spirits," Abigail wrote.

Quinn's gaze traced the lines of text until they seemed to morph into a rope, each word tightening its grip on her heart.

If Abigail found out the paintings were destroyed, she'd be so disappointed.

Quinn clutched her phone and closed her eyes in despair. She lacked the courage to type a single response.

'Maybe people like me don't deserve friends after all,' she thought, a wave of sadness washing over her.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.