The first month under the same roof felt like an eternity to Amara Castellanos.
The Navarro house was everything a dream should be — white marble floors gleaming under golden light, gentle music drifting from unseen speakers, fresh flowers in every corner. It should have felt like home. A beginning. A promise.
But for Amara, it was a cage dressed in beauty.
Kael Navarro had made it clear on the very first night — this arrangement meant nothing to him. No love, no warmth, not even friendship. Just a contract, sealed in silence and formality.
And he proved it every day.
"Don't forget to wipe the counters before you leave the kitchen," he'd say, his voice clipped and indifferent.
"You missed a spot on the floor."
"Don't touch anything in my study."
He didn't shout. He didn't sneer. He simply gave orders, like she was another one of his employees.
Amara nodded every time, her smile practiced, and her voice steady. "Yes, Kael."
She told herself she could endure it — six months, just six months. Then she could leave, and maybe her heart would finally stop remembering what it once felt like to be near him.
But each day stretched like a lifetime.
He was always there and yet impossibly far — reading on the couch in silence, his presence filling the room but his eyes never lifting toward her. Sometimes she caught glimpses of what used to be — the faint crease in his brow when he was deep in thought, the quiet sigh when he thought no one was listening. Those moments made her ache more than the coldness ever could.
She wanted to hate him.Instead, she missed him.
The irony wasn't lost on her.
She cleaned, cooked, folded his laundry — every small act of care she told herself was duty, not affection. And yet, when he came home late, tired from work, she always made sure his dinner was still warm.
He never noticed.
Or maybe he did — and simply chose not to care.
Her only reprieve came from Damian.
Every day, like clockwork, his name would flash across her phone. Sometimes it was a short message, other times a voice note that made her smile despite herself.
"Tell Kael I'm sending him a bill for emotional damages every time he makes you mop twice."
"If you ever need a getaway car, I've got snacks and a playlist ready."
Damian's humour wasn't just a distraction — it was her anchor. His voice reminded her of a world beyond this cold house. A world where she could still laugh, still breathe.
She didn't realize how much she relied on him until one night, her phone stayed silent. No message. No call. The absence felt strange — a hollow space where warmth used to live.
That was when Kael noticed.
He didn't say anything at first, but Amara saw the way his eyes lingered when her phone buzzed with Damian's name the next evening. Saw the muscle in his jaw tighten when she smiled at the message.
The tension built quietly, like a storm waiting to break.
Until it finally did.
Dinner that night was quiet — the soft clink of cutlery and the hum of rain against the window. Amara was thinking of one of Damian's silly jokes, her lips curving before she could stop herself.
"Are you smiling because of him?"
Kael's voice cut through the silence, low and sharp.
Amara froze, her fork clattering against her plate. "W-what?"
"You heard me," he said, his tone icy. "You seem to enjoy Damian's company far too much. Perhaps you'd rather live with him instead of here."
The words hit like a slap.
"Kael…" she whispered, eyes wide. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it?" His gaze burned into hers, cold and furious. "Is he your comfort? You're… distraction?"
Her throat tightened. "He's my friend."
Kael laughed bitterly. "Friend." He said it like an insult.
She wanted to tell him that Damian was the only one who made her feel human again. That his kindness had pulled her from the edge Kael himself had pushed her to. But the look in his eyes stopped her — it wasn't jealousy. It was pride. Wounded, violent pride.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, the only words she could manage.
Her apology only seemed to anger him more. He shoved back from the table, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. "If you're so sorry, then stop smiling at messages that aren't mine."
Her chest constricted painfully. "You don't even want me to smile at you," she whispered.
Kael froze. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes — guilt, perhaps, or regret — but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Without another word, he left the table.
That night, Amara didn't sleep. She sat by the window, watching the rain blur the city lights, wondering when exactly her heart had turned into something so breakable.
When morning came, she went to work at Navarro Group, determined to bury the night behind her.
But fate had other plans.
The moment she stepped into the office, she felt the shift — the weight of eyes on her, the sound of muffled laughter.
Clariss Moonveil had returned.
Her perfume — sweet and sharp — lingered in the air long before Amara saw her. The whispers followed, cruel and gleeful.
"She probably seduced Mr. Navarro to get that engagement," someone said.
"Old men are easy to manipulate," another replied.
Amara kept her head down, her heart pounding. She'd endured gossip before. She could endure this too.
But then the laughter turned to Damian.
"Did you see Damian walking around like he owns the place?" one man sneered. "Acting all high and mighty for someone from a humble household."
"They suit each other," another chuckled. "Two nobodies pretending they belong."
Something inside Amara snapped.
Her pen trembled in her hand. "That's enough," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "You have no right—"
"Enough."
The new voice froze everyone.
Kael stood in the doorway, eyes blazing, and his presence like thunder rolling through the room.
The crowd straightened instantly, colour draining from their faces.
"Is this how you spend your work hours?" he asked, his tone dangerously calm. "Mocking others like children?"
No one dared answer.
"And you," he turned toward the women who had spoken first, his voice dropping lower. "Do you think this is a playground? Should I remind you whose name you work under?"
Silence.
Amara stared, heart racing. He was defending her — truly, publicly.
For one fragile moment, hope flickered again. Maybe he still cared. Maybe she wasn't completely invisible to him.
But then—
A lilting laugh echoed across the room.
Clariss Moonveil stepped forward, her heels clicking against marble. Her smile was beautiful — and deadly. "My, my. How passionate, Kael. One might almost think your engagement was real."
The colour drained from Amara's face.
Kael stiffened. His pride, always his armour, rose like a wall between them.
"Don't be ridiculous," he said coolly.
Clariss tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Oh? So there's nothing between you two?"
"Nothing," Kael said, his voice firm, final. "There never has been, and there never will be."
The words struck Amara like a blade.
Her breath caught. Her heart stopped.
He didn't even look at her.
Clariss's smile widened ever so slightly, victory gleaming in her hazel eyes. She stepped forward, her voice low, smooth as honey."Well said, Kael," she murmured, looping her arm through his. "Though I must say, you're being awfully cruel to your childhood friend."
Kael's jaw tightened, but his eyes remained cold."She's not my childhood friend," he said flatly."She's just the daughter of our household staff. We grew up in the same house—"His gaze flicked briefly toward Amara, hard and distant."—not the same world."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
For a moment, Amara couldn't breathe.Not from the words themselves, but from how easily he had said them. Like erasing her cost him nothing.
Clariss smiled, satisfied.The room seemed to hum with quiet whispers again, emboldened by his denial.
Amara didn't hear them.She barely felt her own heartbeat as she gathered her things with trembling hands, each motion painfully deliberate. Her throat burned, her vision blurred, but she refused to let a single tear fall here — not in front of them.
When she finally turned to leave, Kael's voice didn't stop her.He didn't even look her way.
And for the first time, she realized that distance wasn't measured in steps or walls — it was measured in how easily someone could pretend you never existed.