It was past midnight, and I was still sitting at the edge of my bed, legs curled beneath me, the soft glow of the bedside lamp the only thing keeping the shadows at bay.
The room was quiet. Richard had gone downstairs hours ago after our brief, charged exchange. I wasn't sure if he would return tonight, and oddly, I didn't feel afraid. Just... free. The kind of silence that followed wasn't the comforting kind—it was the echo of words left unsaid, of tension that coiled in the walls like an invisible thread waiting to snap.
I glanced at my phone again.
One message.
Evan: "I'm not trying to ruin your life. But I won't leave without hearing the truth from you. If this is really what you want… tell me to stop. To disappear. And I will."
I hadn't replied. I couldn't.
Not when everything inside me felt too raw to touch.
But the truth?
I didn't know what I wanted.
All I knew was that the way Richard had looked at me tonight—like I was a wound reopening—left a splinter in my chest that wouldn't stop aching.
The next morning, I found him in the sunroom.
He was seated on the chaise, fully dressed, unmoving. His eyes were on the sky, unreadable. A mug of untouched coffee rested on the table beside him, the surface cold.
"You didn't come back to the room," I said quietly.
He didn't look at me. "You were asleep."
I wasn't.
But I let it go.
"I didn't know Evan would show up," I murmured. "I wasn't expecting—"
Richard finally turned his gaze on me. "You don't have to explain every time he walks into your life. He does it on his own, Lara. Somehow, he always finds a way in."
That sting again. Sharp and deliberate.
"I didn't invite him," I said, my voice hardening. "You know I didn't."
"I know," he replied, after a pause. "But that doesn't change how it feels."
The worst part was—I understood. I understood the jealousy that bled into his words, the vulnerability behind his control. But I didn't know how to hold it without cutting myself in the process.
I stepped closer. "Richard…"
He looked away again, jaw clenched. "Do you still love him?"
There it was.
Again.
The question that kept coming back like a ghost refusing to rest.
"I don't know what I feel anymore," I admitted. "But I do know that every time you ask me that, it hurts. Because I'm trying to move forward. I'm trying to be here. But you're always dragging me back into a past I didn't choose to carry alone."
His eyes flickered. And for a moment, I thought he'd say something—anything—to acknowledge what I'd said. But instead, he stood up.
"I have meetings," he said, brushing past me.
Just like that.
I was alone again.
Later that afternoon, I stepped outside to the garden. I needed air. Space. Something bigger than the confines of a house that felt like it was shrinking around me.
That's when I saw her.
Layla.
My sister, her figure small and sharp in a tailored black coat, walking toward the gate like she'd been here dozens of times. But this time, her steps carried a fire I hadn't seen before.
"Lara," she said, pulling me into a quick hug. "I tried calling you."
"My phone's been off." I didn't mention why. "What's wrong?"
Her brows furrowed. "You tell me. Why are you all over social media again? Why is Evan Mercer back in the picture? I thought you were done with him."
I blinked. "I didn't post anything."
"You didn't have to," she said dryly. "Someone else did. Some paparazzi shot outside your studio. And the one outside the house? That's everywhere. Twitter. Threads. Even Reddit has a thread speculating if you're cheating on Richard."
I exhaled, rubbing my forehead. "God. I didn't even know…"
"Lara, listen to me," Layla said firmly. "You need to start drawing lines. Not just for your reputation—but for your own sanity. I don't like how this is affecting you. Or how you let yourself be pulled into his orbit every time he shows up."
She was right.
I hated how right she was.
But the problem wasn't Evan. Or Richard. Not entirely.
It was me. Caught between two people who both demanded different versions of me. One who wanted the past unresolved, and one who demanded a future I wasn't yet ready to promise.
That evening, Richard came home late.
He didn't say much.
But he paused at the door to the room, looking at me in a way that felt less angry and more… tired.
"I heard Layla came by."
I nodded. "She's worried."
"So am I."
There was no accusation in his tone. No venom. Just exhaustion.
I crossed the room and stood before him, arms crossed. "Then stop pushing me away. I can't keep proving to you that I'm not going to run just because Evan's in the same city."
Richard didn't speak. But after a moment, he reached for my hand.
It wasn't possessive. It wasn't desperate.
It was just... there. Steady. Real.
"Then stay," he said softly. "Even when it's hard. Stay."
And I nodded.
Because despite the cracks forming around us, despite the silence and the strain and the ghosts between our words—I wasn't ready to give up yet.
Not on him.
Not on us.
Not yet.