The evening sky hung low, painted in shades of bronze and violet. The Navarro villa stood in its quiet grandeur — immaculate, still, untouched by the chaos that had once unfolded inside it.
Kael hadn't expected to come home early. He had left a meeting halfway, claiming exhaustion, though that wasn't true. Restlessness had driven him back. Ever since his return from the trip, silence had followed him like a shadow. No matter how much he worked, how much he distracted himself, the quiet corners of the villa always whispered her name.
He told himself he wasn't waiting.
He told himself she would come back.
She always did.
But when the headlights cut through the drive that evening, something inside him shifted.
A car — unfamiliar — glided through the gates. It wasn't his friends, nor any of his family's. His brows furrowed as he stepped into the front hall, curiosity laced with a strange pulse in his chest. The sound of the engine stopped, and then — laughter. Soft, low, and painfully familiar.
Her laughter.
Kael's eyes flickered at the quiet intimacy in her laughter. Everything.
When had they gotten so close that she could say something like that so sincerely?
Kael's pulse stuttered.
He moved to the door without thinking. His hand gripped the handle, and for the briefest moment, he hesitated. Something inside him — pride, fear, something darker — screamed for him to turn around, to pretend he didn't care.
But he opened the door anyway.
And the world stopped.
Amara stood there.
For a second, the breath left his lungs. The villa lights spilled across the courtyard, gilding her figure — the long fall of her dark hair, the soft ivory of her blouse, the faint blush of her cheeks under the evening glow. She looked alive again, but not as he remembered — calmer, stronger, unreachable.
Beside her stood Damian Sinclair.
Kael's jaw tightened. Damian's hand brushed against Amara's sleeve as he closed the car door behind her, the motion gentle, protective — intimate in its restraint.
The sight hit Kael harder than he'd expected.
He had imagined this reunion countless times. He had imagined her broken, apologetic, maybe even trembling — the way she had always been when she faced him. But she wasn't trembling now. Her eyes met his, steady, unreadable.
He couldn't move.
"Kael." Her voice was quiet — a single word, but it sliced through the air like a memory he couldn't escape.
It was the first time she had spoken his name since that night.
He swallowed hard, forcing his tone into something resembling control.
"You're back."
Just that.
Two words.
No how are you, no I was worried, no hint of guilt — only the detached tone of someone acknowledging an acquaintance.
The tiny spark of hope that had clung desperately to Amara's heart finally flickered out.
She smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes.
"Yes. I'm back."
Damian felt the subtle shift in her voice, the quiet resignation that spoke louder than any outburst. He wanted to step between them, to shield her from that coldness — but he held himself still. This was something she had to face herself.
"I didn't expect you to be home." Amara added.
He shrugged, looking away. "It's still my house."
Her lips pressed together. "I know."
Kael's gaze lingered on Amara for a moment too long before sliding to Damian. "You brought her?"
"Yes," Damian replied calmly. "She wasn't well for a while. I made sure she recovered."
The weight behind his words made Kael's jaw tighten.
The exchange was civil — cold, measured.
But beneath the stillness, tension coiled like a drawn bow, ready to snap.
Amara shifted slightly, her fingers tightening around the suitcase handle. The gesture was quiet, almost unremarkable — yet it made Kael's chest tighten.
She was here. But she wasn't home. Not really.
His gaze lingered on the suitcase. "You're staying here again?"
"Yes," Amara said softly. "Until the six months end. That was the agreement with your grandfather."
Just until the six months.
The words struck him like glass under strain — quiet, final, and impossibly fragile.
His expression darkened slightly. "You don't have to."
"I want to," she said softly. "It's just a place to stay."
Her voice was steady, but inside, her heart was breaking again — not from longing, but from realization.
He really didn't care.
He wasn't jealous because he wanted her. He was jealous because someone else had been there for her when he wasn't.
All the hope she had — the fragile, flickering wish that maybe he had missed her — crumbled into ashes.
She forced herself to breathe, straightening her back.
For so long, she had loved him more than she had loved herself. She had waited, endured, and believed that someday he would see her. But now she knew.
He never would.
She was just someone familiar. Convenient.
Someone whose parents worked for his family — someone he found when he was lonely, and discarded when she became inconvenient.
Not again.
Not this time.
She smiled — a quiet, sad smile — and walked past him. But he stopped her.
"Where have you been?" His voice came out lower than intended.
"Recovering," she answered, and something about the simplicity of that word made him falter.
His brow furrowed as a thought struck him. Even when she'd been living at the villa, she'd kept her old apartment — quietly. So why now?
"Why did you move out of your apartment?" he asked, voice low.
She met his gaze, calm and unreadable. "I just needed a new environment."
But in her mind, the truth whispered louder than her voice ever could:
A new environment… so I wouldn't keep remembering you.