Chapter 85 — Shadows of a Dream
Auri's POV
Months had passed since Dante's betrayal, but the pain in my chest hadn't lessened. Some mornings, it felt like a weight pressing on my ribs, dragging me down before I even opened my eyes. The mansion, the emails, the lies—they were distant echoes, yet they haunted me relentlessly.
I walked slowly along the familiar path to the cemetery, my coat hanging loosely on my thinner frame. The reflection in the car park had shocked me once before—Auri, pale, fragile, far smaller than she used to be. Months of skipping meals, of letting grief consume every part of her, had left me nearly hollow.
I wasn't just broken from Dante's betrayal—I was broken from the loss of my daughter, the life I had carried for seven months inside me. Every heartbeat, every kick I had felt, had been taken away before she ever saw the world. I had dreamed of her, imagined her, loved her already. And now… I had only grief to keep her memory alive.
At the Grave
I knelt slowly by the small, pristine stone that marked the resting place of the life I had never held. The wind tugged at my hair as if urging me to look up, but I kept my gaze fixed on the cold stone.
"I… I'm sorry," I whispered, voice shaking. "I should have… I don't know… done something differently. I should have protected you… protected us."
Tears fell freely, soaking my hands as I traced the engraved letters. "I loved you already, so much. Seven months, and I never even got to hold you… I never even got to see your face. And now…" My voice broke. "…now all I can do is carry the memory of you inside me, even though you're gone."
I let myself speak to her as though she could hear me. I told her about the small things I had imagined: her first laugh, the day she would meet Dante, the clothes I had bought and never used. Every word came with a sob, every sentence a mix of love, longing, and guilt.
"I failed you," I admitted, pressing my hand to the stone. "Maybe… maybe if I hadn't been so broken, if I had been stronger… none of this would have happened. Maybe your father wouldn't have… maybe I wouldn't have… I don't know. I'm sorry."
The guilt was unbearable. The betrayal, the loss, the grief—they had combined into a storm that seemed impossible to endure.
Auri's Reflection
I stayed there for hours, letting the tears fall, letting the stories spill out like a river of memory and sorrow. The autumn wind rustled the trees, and each leaf that fluttered to the ground felt like a reminder of time moving on without her.
My body felt fragile, lighter than it should, thinner from months of neglecting myself. I had stopped eating, stopped caring, stopped being who I was before the world had turned on me. And yet… somehow, I was still here.
Somewhere deep inside, buried under the grief and guilt, a faint ember of determination glimmered. I could survive this. I could keep living, even though it hurt.
"I love you," I whispered to the empty air above the grave, my hand brushing the cool stone. "And I will always love you… even though I never got to hold you. I'm so sorry for everything I couldn't protect."
I rose slowly, wiping the tears from my cheeks. My body shook, but I took a deep, steadying breath. I wasn't healed—not yet—but I had to move forward, somehow. Not for Dante, not for anyone else… but for the daughter I had lost, and for myself.
I walked away from the grave, each step heavy, but each step a small act of resilience. Her memory would live in me forever, a quiet strength in the hollow spaces of my heart.
The apartment was quiet, too quiet, but the silence no longer felt suffocating—it was just… present. Months had passed since I had stood at my daughter's grave, and the weight of grief still pressed on me, but it no longer kept me immobile.
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I moved slowly around the small space, tidying up scattered papers, wiping dust from the corners, brewing a cup of tea that I actually sipped instead of leaving cold. The reflection in the window startled me only once—pale, thin, fragile, but alive. I let out a small, shaky breath and whispered, "I'm still here."
Marcela's Support
My phone buzzed incessantly, brightening the quiet apartment with notifications. I almost ignored it, wary of attention, but one name made me pause:
Marcela🌸:"Auri! Babe, are you alive? You haven't responded in days!"
I smiled faintly at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Maybe… maybe I can let someone in again.
Auri:"I'm alive… just… tired."
Immediately, her replies came, fast and cheerful, just the way I needed them:
Marcela🌸:"Good! You're alive? That's amazing. Now, get dressed. We're going to make you eat something and laugh until your stomach hurts. Deal?"
I giggled softly, the first real laugh in months. Maybe I'm ready for a little normalcy.
Auri:"Deal."
Dante's Desperation
Meanwhile, Dante was pacing the floors of his office, his mind a whirlwind of panic, guilt, and regret. He hadn't seen Auri in months, and each day without her felt like punishment for what had almost happened. Celestine's manipulation, his own weakness—it all weighed on him more than any business loss ever could.
He had called, texted, sent messages begging for a chance to explain, to see her, to apologize in person—but she hadn't responded. Every silence from her was a knife in his chest, reminding him that he had lost the woman he loved most.
Finally, he made a decision. He would go to her, no matter what it took. He couldn't force her forgiveness, but he needed to see her, to witness whether she was safe, whether she was surviving without him.
The Reunion
I was at the small café near my apartment, Marcela beside me, laughing at some ridiculous story she'd typed into the group chat. I hadn't realized how much I had missed the sound of her voice—or how much I needed her energy to remind me that life still existed outside my grief.
My phone buzzed again. This time, the name on the screen made my stomach knot.
Dante.
I froze, staring at the screen. Part of me wanted to ignore it, to pretend he didn't exist. But another part… a weaker part, a part I hated, still cared.
Marcela noticed my hesitation. "You're going to answer, aren't you?" she teased softly. Her hand squeezed mine. "Only if you want to."
I nodded faintly, taking a deep breath. "I… I should at least hear him out."
I answered.
"Auri…" His voice was ragged, thick with emotion. "Please… I just… I need to see you. Please."
I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the phone. "Dante… it's been months. I'm still… hurting."
"I know," he whispered. "I know. And I deserve it. I can't take back what I did—or almost did—but please… let me see you. Please… I need to know you're safe. I… I need to try."
Something in his voice—the raw, unfiltered guilt, the desperation, the brokenness—made my chest ache in a new way. I couldn't forgive him yet, maybe not ever, but I could at least… face him.
Steps Toward Healing
I hung up and took a deep breath. "Marcela… I think… I think I need to see him."
Her eyes widened. "Are you sure?"
"I'm… not sure about forgiveness," I admitted, tears threatening again. "But I need closure. I need to see him… to see that he feels the weight of what he's done."
Marcela squeezed my hand again. "Okay. I'll be right here with you. But whatever happens… you're not alone, Auri."
I nodded, grateful. For the first time in months, I felt a small thread of hope—slender, fragile, but undeniable.
Even broken, I could start picking up the pieces.
Dante at the Door
I walked back to my apartment, Marcela beside me, heart hammering with a mixture of fear, anger, and something I hated to admit… longing.
And then I saw him. Standing on the steps outside, tense, eyes haunted, like he had aged years in the past months. He looked at me, and for a moment, the world stopped.
"Auri," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "Thank you… for letting me see you."
I didn't respond immediately. I just studied him—the man I loved, the man who had betrayed me, the man who now looked smaller somehow, stripped of his usual arrogance and power, broken by guilt.
Marcela squeezed my hand one last time and whispered, "Go on. You're ready."
I nodded slowly. "Dante… we need to talk."
And just like that, the first step toward reckoning and maybe healing began.