Marked By the Pureblood Alpha (Deanna and Luis) novel Chapter 164

**The Heart I Buried for You by Serene Lockwood**
**Chapter 164: When He Finally Came Home**

**Deanna’s POV:**

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, I stepped into the design studio, my heart laden with an overwhelming sense of fatigue. The office greeted me with its familiar chaotic charm, blueprints scattered across the tables like forgotten dreams waiting to be resurrected.

Maggie’s head popped up from behind a towering pile of sketches, her eyes wide with concern. “Deanna, you look absolutely drained. That storm last night must have really rattled you, huh?”

I sank into my chair, the weight of exhaustion pulling me down like an anchor, dragging me into the depths of my weariness. “I just had a bad dream,” I replied, attempting to brush off her worry with a dismissive wave of my hand.

But the truth was far more troubling; sleep had eluded me completely, leaving me a mere shadow of my usual self.

I had tried every trick in the book—counting sheep, sipping herbal tea, even immersing myself in calming music—but nothing seemed to work. My mind was a restless sea, tumultuous waves crashing against the shores of my consciousness, tossing and turning with thoughts I couldn’t quiet.

Maggie leaned in closer, concern etched deeply on her face. “Wow, that nightmare really did a number on you. Look at those dark circles under your eyes.”

I fished a compact mirror from my purse and gasped at my reflection. I looked ghostly pale, like a specter who had wandered too far from the light, lost in the shadows.

In a flurry of motion, I pulled out my foundation, dabbing it on my face in a desperate attempt to mask the signs of my sleepless night. I had crucial client meetings lined up for later, and I couldn’t afford to appear weak. If I showed up like this, their instincts would pick up on my vulnerability, and the deals I desperately needed would slip through my fingers like grains of sand.

Bluewave Studio had been struggling to attract significant clients and lucrative projects for far too long. We were finally in the running for the Skyline Construction project bid, a golden opportunity that could change everything for us, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos.

But the competition was fierce; nearly ten major design studios were vying for this architectural contract, each one more prestigious than the last. The uncertainty of our selection loomed over me like a dark cloud, casting a shadow over my every thought.

So, I buried myself in work as Zelena focused on the design aspects, while I tirelessly chased after clients, pushing for deals to keep our studio afloat.

For days on end, I became a whirlwind of activity, darting around the office like a relentless hound on a mission. There was simply no time to dwell on my personal turmoil.

Yet, when the sun dipped below the horizon and I returned to Crestwood Park, the emptiness hit me like a tidal wave. Luis was not home. His scent had faded, leaving only a ghost of what once was, a haunting reminder of his absence.

Even when he didn’t come home, he would send me a message. I would read those few words and curl my lips into a bitter smile, a mix of longing and resentment swirling within me.

I never asked him what he was up to. Instead, I would delete his messages and change his contact name to “Jerk,” a small act of rebellion against the ache in my heart, a way to reclaim a fragment of control over my emotions.

The relentless pace of work had taken its toll on both of us; Maggie had been pulling extra hours alongside me, her dedication unwavering. That evening, her exhaustion finally bubbled to the surface. She rubbed her eyes and said softly, “Deanna, we’ve been visiting clients every day. We should really rest at night. Working this late affects… tomorrow’s productivity, don’t you think?”

It was then that I glanced at the clock, realizing it was almost 8 p.m. again. Looking into Maggie’s hopeful eyes, my heart softened.

“Alright, let’s head home,” I agreed, the thought of rest sounding more appealing by the second, a siren call to my weary soul.

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