By the end of the week, the world seemed gentler again. The sunlight streamed through clear blue skies, and the villa's garden shimmered in gold and green.
The Castellanos and Sinclair families decided to hold a small barbecue—a soft celebration of Amara's recovery. Damian had insisted it would do her good.
By late morning, the villa garden glowed under golden sunlight. The scent of grilled food mingled with the perfume of roses and the soft hum of cicadas. Garlands of flowers hung beneath the pergola, and laughter drifted across the lawn.
Damian stood by the grill, sleeves rolled up, flipping meat with casual grace. Mr. Castellanos stood beside him, offering pointers on seasoning.
"You've got a good hand," the older man chuckled. "Ever thought of running a restaurant instead of a corporation?"
Damian laughed. "Not sure the board would approve, sir."
Mrs. Castellanos smiled from the table. "He's such a dependable man. Our Ara is lucky."
Her words made his ears turn faintly red. And Damian nearly burned the meat. "Ah—she's the strong one, ma'am."
Amara, seated beneath the shade of a large oak tree, couldn't help but smile quietly at the sight — her parents and Damian sharing light-hearted banter.
It was rare, seeing her father so at ease.
She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply. The sun was gentle, the laughter soft. For the first time in weeks, her heart didn't hurt so much.
"Damian, dear," Mrs. Castellanos called. "Could you and Ara fetch the marinated meat from the fridge? I think we forgot it."
Damian straightened. "Ah—should I call one of the staff?"
Mr. Castellanos waved a hand. "No, no. Let the two of you go. Good to stretch your legs, my dear Ara."
Amara sighed softly. She knew exactly what her parents were doing. They'd been exchanging amused glances all morning — the kind of teasing that burned softly beneath smiles.
Still, she stood. "Alright, Mama."
Damian followed her, a bit flustered but trying to keep his calm. They walked side by side back into the villa. The air between them was quiet, but not uncomfortable—just heavy with things unsaid.
As they reached the kitchen, Amara's thoughts started spiralling.
Why does he like me?
It was a question that had been haunting her ever since she remembered his confession.
She wasn't beautiful. She knew that. She'd heard it too many times before—from co-workers, even from Kael once, indirectly. They said she looked gloomy, boring… and that she had the same expression as Sadako from The Ring.
How could Damian, someone so kind, so full of light, love someone like her?
She furrowed her brow, lost in thought, and didn't realize she had started murmuring out loud. "It doesn't make sense… why would he like me? I'm not beautiful. I'm not even interesting. Maybe he just… pities me.""
Damian stopped in his tracks. "What did you just say?"
Amara froze, eyes widening. She looked up and saw his face—serious, almost hurt.
"Amara," he said softly, stepping closer. "Do you really think I'd say something like that because of pity?"
"I—I don't know…" she stammered. "I just—why me, Damian? There are so many beautiful women around you. I'm not—"
"Don't," he interrupted, his tone firm but gentle. "Don't talk about yourself like that."
Amara blinked. "But it's true—"
"No, it's not." His voice deepened. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met."
Amara's breath caught. "Damian…"
He took a small step closer, his gaze softening. "You don't see what I see. Every time you smile, even a little, it feels like the world stops. When you focus on your work, you look so determined. When you secretly care about others, you don't even realize how much light you bring into their lives."
Her cheeks turned crimson. "Stop saying things like that…"
"I mean every word."
Amara's lips trembled. "But I'm not—"
"Don't say it," he cut her off again. "You don't need to compare yourself to anyone. You're you, Amara. That's what I fell in love with."
For a moment, her heart forgot its rhythm—stilled by the sweetness of him.
She looked away, "Damian…"
He exhaled softly. "If my feelings make it harder for you to heal, then forget I ever said them. You can use me if it helps you move on. I'll take it. And if someday you choose someone else—Kael, or anyone—I won't stop you. As long as you're happy… that's enough for me. Just… let me stay by your side, even if it's only as a shadow."
Tears welled in her eyes. "Don't say that."
Damian blinked, startled.
"I don't want to forget your confession," she whispered. "And I won't use you to forget someone else. That wouldn't be fair—to you, or your heart."
Her voice trembled but held steady courage. "Right now, I can't love anyone yet. My heart's still healing. But maybe—someday—when I'm ready, I might return your feelings. Just don't wait for that someday. You deserve happiness too."
For a long heartbeat, silence filled the kitchen — soft, fragile, honest.
Then Damian smiled. A small, breath-taking curve of lips. "You really are something, Amara."
He chuckled, a quiet sound that eased the heaviness. "Alright. I won't wait. But I'll still be here."
She smiled faintly, warmth glimmering in her eyes. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," he said softly, "but I made you smile again."
And she did — shyly, genuinely.
Outside, the world was awash in sunlight.
The two families sat together beneath the pergola, surrounded by the aroma of grilled food and the easy murmur of conversation.
Damian's parents had arrived earlier, and though Amara's parents had been polite and warm, she'd seen the nervous way her mother smoothed her skirt, the way her father avoided eye contact at first. The Sinclair's were elegant, poised — their clothes simple yet expensive, their manner unshakably calm.
Damian noticed too. His stomach had knotted at the subtle distance between the families. He feared that the difference in worlds — wealth, upbringing, refinement — might make Amara's parents feel small. He wanted this to go well. Not just for appearances, but because he wanted her world and his to find peace in the same air.
But then Mrs. Sinclair laughed — softly, kindly — at something Mrs. Castellanos said about overcooked fish.
Mr. Sinclair chimed in, smiling. "Oh, please, my wife still can't boil rice without supervision."
That broke the ice.
Soon, laughter mingled freely across the table.
Amara's mother visibly relaxed. "Ah, I was worried we'd be too simple for such a place," she admitted with a shy smile.
Mrs. Sinclair reached over, touching her hand warmly. "Oh, nonsense. I admire people who raise children like your daughter. She's thoughtful. Grounded. You should be proud."
Across the table, Mr. Castellanos exhaled softly, his eyes crinkling. "And your son… he's a good man. The kind any father would trust his daughter with."
The two fathers exchanged a small, understanding nod. The kind that carried both gratitude and quiet approval.
Their wives followed suit with matching smiles — the kind that said without words: We see it too.
Damian caught it. So did Amara.
And though neither spoke, something soft unfolded between them in that moment — a quiet acceptance, a shared warmth beneath the golden sky.
Amara stood near the table, her dark hair catching the light as she arranged the plates. Damian watched her from where he stood by the grill — his gaze steady, quiet, full of unspoken things.
Maybe she wasn't his yet.
Maybe she never would be.
But watching her there, surrounded by laughter, her smile slowly coming back to life —
That was enough.
For now, it was enough.
If love meant waiting in the light, not the shadows—he would wait.
And in that gentle dawn of healing, both of them — and their worlds — began to breathe a little easier.