The storm began quietly that night—just the low growl of thunder at the edge of the city, distant enough to be ignored. But Kael Navarro had learned that storms always start that way: soft, almost merciful, before they decide to break everything.
He sat in his office long after everyone had left. The city glittered below him, a thousand lights reflected on the windowpane—mocking, cold. The reports on his desk blurred together. Numbers, deals, contracts—none of them mattered. His mind was somewhere else entirely.
Amara's absence had grown unbearable.
Ten days. Then fifteen. Then nearly a month.
Every morning, her empty desk greeted him like a wound. Every evening, her silence followed him home like a ghost he couldn't outrun. He told himself she needed space. He told himself she'd come back.
But tonight, when Clariss's words returned to him—"Damian rushing her into the hospital, holding her like she mattered"—something inside him snapped.
He'd tried to ignore it, but the image gnawed at his thoughts.
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Liam's number. His best friend, his oldest ally. The one person who never sugarcoated the truth.
He called.
Liam answered on the second ring.
"Kael? It's late."
"I need to see you," Kael said. His voice sounded calm, but the edge beneath it betrayed him. "Now."
There was a pause. "Is this about her?"
Kael didn't answer, but Liam sighed. "Alright. Come by the office. I'm still here."
When Kael entered, Liam was leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, a cup of cold coffee by his side. He looked up, weary but unsurprised.
"I was wondering when you'd finally ask," Liam said.
Kael didn't bother with small talk. "Clariss told me she saw Damian with Amara at the hospital."
Liam's expression shifted—something between caution and regret. "So you finally know."
"Know what?" Kael's voice sharpened. "That she's been seeing him behind my back?"
Liam stared at him, unflinching. "That's not what happened."
Kael frowned. "Then what did happen?"
"She collapsed, Kael." Liam's tone was quiet but heavy. "After you said those things in front of everyone, after you humiliated her—she didn't go home. She walked in the rain for hours. By the time Damian found her, she was burning with fever. He rushed her to the hospital."
Kael blinked, the words cutting through him like shards of glass.
"She… collapsed?"
Liam nodded slowly. "They said she was unconscious for two days."
Kael took a step back, as though he could distance himself from the truth. "You're lying."
"I wish I were."
He laughed bitterly—a hollow sound. "She's strong. She wouldn't just… fall apart like that."
"She didn't fall apart, Kael. You broke her."
The room went utterly still.
Liam's voice softened, but it held no pity. "You pushed her until she couldn't stand anymore. And when she fell, someone else picked her up."
Kael's throat tightened. "Damian."
"Yes. Damian."
He turned away, running a hand through his hair, his breathing uneven. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you said you didn't care," Liam said quietly. "You said she was just a staff's daughter."
Kael winced at his own words echoed back to him. He wanted to deny them, but the memory was too vivid—the coldness in his tone, the tremor in Amara's eyes.
"I didn't mean it," he muttered.
"You meant to hurt her," Liam replied. "And you did."
Silence filled the space between them, thick and suffocating.
Then Liam said something that made Kael's heart stop.
"And Clariss's photo? The one she showed you—it was fake."
Kael's head snapped up. "What?"
"I checked," Liam said simply. "A friend of mine works in digital media. It was edited. Cropped, blurred, retouched—the angle was changed to make it look like Damian was holding her romantically. It was inside her room. Damian had his arm around Amara—his face drawn with concern, her head resting against his shoulder because she could barely sit up.
Kael's hands curled into fists. "Clariss lied to me."
"She manipulated you," Liam corrected. "Because she knew exactly how to get under your skin. And you let her."
The words hit harder than any punch.
Kael sank into the nearest chair, the fight draining out of him. His pulse thundered in his ears. "So all this time…" He pressed a trembling hand to his temple. "All this time, I was angry at her for nothing."
Liam exhaled. "You were angry because it was easier than being sorry."
Kael looked up sharply, pain flickering behind his eyes. "Don't start with your moral lessons, Liam."
"Someone has to," his friend said. "Because if you keep pretending it's just pride, you're going to lose more than her—you're going to lose yourself."
Kael stared at him, then narrowed his eyes. "Why are you even on her side? You never liked her. You didn't want her in our circle."
Liam didn't flinch. "I still don't."
Kael blinked. "Then why—"
"Because I felt sorry for her," Liam said simply. "I didn't want her here, but that doesn't mean I was fine with what you were doing to her. Watching you tear her down just to protect your ego? That wasn't strength, Kael. That was cowardice."
Kael stared at him, words tangled in his throat. His pride wanted to argue, to deny. But his heart… it had already cracked open.
"She was in the hospital," he whispered again, as if saying it could undo it. "And I didn't even know."
Liam nodded, quiet. "You could still fix this. But not if you keep looking for someone else to blame."
Kael rose abruptly, his chair scraping the floor. His chest was tight, his jaw set. "Where is she now?"
"I don't know," Liam admitted.
Kael let out a low, humourless laugh. "Unbelievable."
He turned toward the door.
"Kael," Liam called after him, "Don't go looking for her if all you want is forgiveness. She doesn't owe you that."
Kael froze, his hand on the doorknob. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then quietly, almost to himself, he murmured, "I don't want forgiveness. I just want her back."
And he walked out into the storm.
The rain outside hit like needles. He didn't care.
By the time he reached his car, his clothes were soaked through. But the ache in his chest was worse than the cold.
His mind replayed everything—her trembling voice, the way she'd looked at him that day, the moment she'd stopped believing in him.
He gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. "I'll make it right," he whispered to the empty car. "I'll find her, and I'll make it right."
But even as he said it, another voice whispered beneath his breath—
What if she doesn't want to be found?
He didn't answer it. He just drove, the storm following him home.