The sound of the door reopening jolted Amara back to herself.
She hadn't moved from where she'd fallen, knees bent, arms limp at her sides, breath coming in ragged pulls. The carpet beneath her was still warm from the echo of him. Elias. Michelle. Whoever he was now.
When the door creaked open again, the light from the hallway spilled across the room like a wound being reopened. She lifted her head slowly, her vision hazy from unshed tears.
He stood there again.
Only this time, he wasn't alone.
A young woman in a navy blazer followed behind him. The hotel receptionist. Her name tag glinted faintly under the light: Grace.
Grace was speaking, her voice low and apologetic. "I am so sorry, Mr. Michelle. I've checked the system twice, and it appears both of your reservations were approved under overlapping codes. I believe it's a clerical error."
Elias, no, Michelle, didn't look at Amara. Not once. He kept his gaze firmly on the young woman, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets, his face composed. "How soon can it be fixed?"
Grace winced slightly. "Unfortunately, sir, we're fully booked tonight. There's a conference event downstairs, and most of our executives' suites like this are occupied."
"I see," he said simply, his tone cool. "Then relocate me to another hotel."
Grace's hands twisted together nervously. "Sir, the partner hotels are also at full capacity tonight due to the summit. I could—"
Amara finally stood, her knees unsteady but her voice sharp. "I can go."
Both heads turned toward her.
Her hair was mussed, her robe slightly open at the collar, with her eyes rimmed red. She didn't look at him. She refused to. Her gaze was fixed on the receptionist instead. "You can move my booking somewhere else."
Grace shook her head quickly. "Ma'am, it's past two-thirty a.m. None of our affiliate hotels have immediate check-in privileges after midnight. The earliest transfer process would be in the morning."
Amara swallowed hard, her throat aching. "Then I'll stay in the lobby."
Grace flinched. "I wouldn't advise that. It's not really comfortable at this hour, and—"
She hesitated, glancing nervously between them. "If it's not too much trouble, perhaps… you could share the suite for tonight?"
The silence that followed was brutal.
Amara froze. Michelle's expression didn't shift an inch, though something flickered briefly — a tightening of his jaw, the faintest tremor in his fingers before he slipped them deeper into his pockets.
Grace, oblivious to the history she'd just stepped into, continued gently, "It's a large space. The suite is technically double occupancy, and both of you seem quite… professional. I can request an additional key and note this as a temporary arrangement."
Amara's laugh came out brittle, sharp. "Professional."
Michelle finally looked at her. His eyes met hers like a blade sliding clean through silence.
"Fine," he said. The word landed cold and final.
Grace's shoulders relaxed. "Thank you, Mr. Michelle. Ma'am." She smiled politely, still unaware of the storm around her. "I'll have housekeeping send up extra toiletries and a second set of linens."
"No need," he said, already turning away.
Amara clenched her hands into fists, but her voice came out calm. "Actually, please do," she said to Grace. "I'd prefer not to use anything that's already been touched."
The young lady blinked, startled by her tone, then nodded quickly. "Of course." She left with a flurry of quiet apologies, promising to return shortly.
The door shut behind her.
Silence followed. Thick, taut, and unbearable.
Michelle stood near the window again, his back to her, as he stared out at the city lights. His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, tall, composed, and heartbreakingly familiar.
Amara's breath shook. "You really don't plan to explain anything, do you?"
He didn't answer.
"Not a word?" she pressed. "Not even a 'Sorry I let you think I was dead for three years'? Nothing?"
He turned slightly, his profile hard in the light. "You're mistaken."
"Mistaken," she repeated, hollowly. "Right. That's what we're calling it."
He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them with precise, almost mechanical movements. "You can take the bedroom. I'll stay out here."
She laughed quietly. "You think this is about sleeping arrangements?"
"No," he said. "It's about boundaries."
The words hit her like another slap.
She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the floor. "You want boundaries? After disappearing for three years and showing up in my room?"
"I didn't intend to," he said simply. "It's an error."
"An error?" Her voice cracked. "You were in my life, and you call this—this… an error?"
He finally turned fully then, meeting her gaze dead-on. "Yes."
The word was so soft, and so deliberate, it made her chest cave in.
Amara's breath hitched. "You bastard."
He didn't react. His face stayed maddeningly composed. But from his hands, she saw the faint tremor again. A tiny betrayal.
"I'll make coffee," he said, moving toward the kitchenette.
"Don't you dare." she began, but he was already there, moving with the quiet ease of someone who needed a task to keep himself from falling apart.
The sound of running water filled the silence.
"You can't just act like this is nothing," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Like you didn't die. Like I didn't bury you."
He placed the coffee pot down gently. "You should get some sleep."
She stared at him. "Look at me."
He didn't.
"I said look at me!" she yelled at him.
His head turned slowly, reluctantly. Their eyes met again.
The distance between them was filled with everything unspoken. The grief, the love, and the disbelief.
Amara's voice dropped, raw and shaking. "If you're going to lie to me again, at least do it while looking at me."
He held her gaze for a heartbeat and something cracked behind his eyes. Then he blinked, once, slowly, and whatever emotion had flickered there vanished.
"You have my word," he said evenly. "I don't know you."
Her throat burned. "Then why do your hands shake when you lie?"
He didn't answer.
The silence stretched. The air between them thickened until it felt impossible to breathe.
The door knocked softly. Grace appeared, with housekeeping behind her. They entered quietly, setting down a folded blanket, an extra pillow, and a silver tray of freshly brewed tea.
Amara muttered a thank you. Michelle didn't speak.
When they left again, he poured himself a cup, his movements painfully calm. "You can rest now. I'll handle the morning."
She laughed under her breath. "Still trying to fix things."
He didn't look at her. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Her breath caught. "What did you just say?"
He froze for a fraction of a second, then covered it effortlessly. "I meant professionally. We handle errors before escalation."
"Professionally," she repeated bitterly. "Right."
He set the cup down, the faintest clink betraying his restraint. "Goodnight, Miss."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "You're a coward."
He didn't move.
"You hide behind your new name, your new suit, your new lies. But I see you."
"Then stop looking," he said quietly.
Amara's heart lurched. "Is that what you've been doing all this time? Not looking?"
His jaw tightened. "Go to bed."
She shook her head, stepping closer. "Say my name."
He remained still.
"Say it," she demanded, her voice cracking. "Amara. Say it."
The silence that followed was so complete it hurt.
Then, softly he said. "Miss Amara, I'm asking you once more, please, rest."
Her chest constricted. The formality. The distance. The deliberate erasure.
She could've screamed. Instead, she turned and walked toward the bedroom. Each step was slow, deliberate, like dragging herself through years of grief all over again.
Before closing the door, she paused.
Her voice was almost too quiet to hear. "If you're trying to convince me you're someone else, you're doing a terrible job. Because everything about you still feels like him."
The door clicked shut.
And for the first time that night, he exhaled.
His mask cracked. His hands clenched at his sides, his breath turned shallow, and his eyes burned with everything he couldn't say.
He stared at the empty space she'd just left. The room still smelled faintly of her. The same lavender and rain scent that used to cling to his skin after she'd hugged him too long.
He pressed his palms against the counter, his reflection fractured in the glass.
Three years of restraint, of distance, of dying without dying, and now she was here. Breathing. Real. Looking at him like a ghost who'd betrayed her twice.
He shut his eyes, swallowing hard.
He'd promised himself that if he ever saw her again, he'd walk past her like a stranger.
Tonight, he almost failed.
Almost.