LILLIAN 

   The cameras pop like gunfire.

   I straightened my spine, rolled my shoulders back, chin up high. Flash. My fingers curled into the silk of my dress as Joe and I stepped forward, holding still as the lights popped again. 

   I pressed my freshly manicured nails into Joe's arm and arched my lips into a perfect, luscious smile. He does the same, his hand resting casually at the small of my back as a way to send a message to the world and, most especially,.

   "Over here! Mrs. Blackwell! Look this way! Give us a kiss!"

   I immediately snapped my gaze toward the voice behind the camera, jaw tightening. My smile faltered for half a second-just enough to betray the flicker of rage behind my eyes. 

   I hate when they call me by that name. It always curled around my ribs like barbed wire. But I recover fast, plastering the grin back like it's been stitched to my face. 

   I lean in. His lips brushed mine, staged and cold. We held it for the click and pulled away. 

   My father's estate looms behind the gates like a mountain-cold stone, glass windows tall enough to swallow you whole. The house screams so much money, it smelled like arrogance.

    "Smile bigger," Joe mutters through his teeth.

   I laugh-fake and bright. "If I smile any harder, my face would split."

   It's been six months since I was last here, and the foyer hasn't changed. Neither does the chill that creeps into my skin anytime I'm here. The same marble floors. The same grand chandelier that never swung. And the same ghost of the girl I used to be. 

   "Lillian, today is already bad as it is, let's not make it harder than it has to be," Joe whispers, his breath brushing my temple. "You know your dad's no fool. He'll sniff out tension faster than you can fake a smile. So whatever you're feeling, bury it. Play nice."

   I nod, wearing the smile I save for rooms like this back onto my face as a butler ushers us down the hall towards the dining room. 

   I hate this house.

   It reminds me of everything.

   It reminds me of the arguments and slammed doors. It reminds me of how my father became cold and distant. How he stopped looking at me like a human but rather as an object after he remarried his supposed first love. How my stepmother always wore an egoistic smile like she'd won a war. It reminds me of the number of times I cried into my pillow after I said yes to getting married. 

   Adrenaline surged, burning under my skin as the memories filled my mind. My hands wouldn't stay still. Heat crawled up my neck, flooding my face. 

   "I need to freshen up," I say once we're inside the dining room, slipping my hand from Joe's arm. "I'll be right back."

   He nods once, distracted, already talking to someone I believe to be my father's business partner. I didn't feel offended. That's the thing about being married to someone who values work over you-he sees you as an accessory. A beautiful, expensive afterthought. 

   Too scared to go up to my old room, I find the guest bathroom just past the study, close the door, and lean against it for a little while before moving to the mirror.

   I stare at myself in the mirror.

   I look horrible. No amount of makeup can cover how pale I look. 

   I smoothed my damp palms over my red dress, the fabric hugging me nicely like a second skin-flawless on the outside, chaos underneath.

   The door creaks open.

    I whirl around.

   Too late-I forgot the lock stick.

   Sierra steps in, all heels, perfume and practiced disdain.

   Her bleached blonde hair falls in glossy waves, her lips are red as blood, and her dress clings to her like it's daring her chest to spill out. "You left the door unlocked. Or did you want an audience who would look at how miserable you look?"

   "Get out."

   She tilts her head to the side. "Why? This is my house too, remember?"

   I stare at her. Hard. "It's been five years since you vanished, and you still haven't changed."

   She smirks. "Please. If you think becoming daddy's precious little pet makes you matter more, then you've stupidly settled into your delusions, sis."

   Half sister, I wanted to say, she always has a knack for reminding me about it, but I'm already walking past her not wanting her to see how much her words stung me like a bee. 

   "Oh, by the way," she adds, voice honey-slicked, "you might want to touch up. You've got that 'cracked porcelain doll' thing going on."

   I don't look back.

   *~*~*~*~*~*

   The dining room is filled with people who barely tolerate each other. 

   My father is at the head of the table. My stepmother to his right, flashing that wide, camera-perfect smile she only wore when it came to important occasions. Sierra sat like a princess, sipping her wine with a smirk. Joe is beside me, phone out, glancing up only when he feels there's a need to. 

   Everyone here is playing their role perfectly.

   We're all just pretending-pretending to be happy, to care. All for a stranger we barely know.

   My father's voice cut through the silence like a sharp knife through silk. "Still always late, aren't you?" He says without looking up. 

   "Not late," I reply evenly. "Just... on time."

   He finally looks up, his gaze locked on mine, cold and sharp, telling me how disappointed he is in me. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

   I chewed the inside of my cheeks, my go-to method to keep me from rolling my eyes. He always does this-finds a petty way to throw jabs at me. But I've learned not to let him see how deep he gets under my skin.

   Silence drapes over the table like a cold blanket. No one dares to speak. Only the clinking glass and the quiet movements of the butlers disturbed the tension hanging in the air.

   I stare at the glass of red wine Joe just handed me-five years together, and he still doesn't know I prefer white wine. I considered downing it all at once, if only to drown out the quiet crisis unraveling inside me.

   I shouldn't have come. I didn't want to be here. But when my father calls says it's an emergency... no excuse told you have to show up. Because no matter how many magazine covers I've graced or brands I've built, to him, I'm still just the daughter he can leverage.

   "I have a big announcement tonight," my father says as he pours himself an expensive glass of whiskey. "Very exciting. This is going to bring forth a great future for this family."

   The air thickens the type enough to leave you unconscious. Joe puts down his phone.

   "Is it a family-related business?" My uncle Alex asked.

   "No," my father says, smiling widely now. "It's a good personal business."

   My stomach turns.

   He always does this. Playing games with us while dropping crumbs as he sits back and watches us squirm for more information.

   I reach for my glass, about to down it all in one go.

   And then he says it.

   "Ahhh, there he is."

   All eyes shifted towards the doorway, so I turned slowly, uncertain, bracing myself for whatever came next.

   And everything stops.

   And for a second I forgot how to breathe. 

   My face instantly goes pale as panic fills my thoughts like dark clouds. 

   And standing in the doorway, looking taller, sharper,   somehow even more devastating than the last time I saw him-

   Ronan.

   The last man I ever thought I'd see again.

LILLIAN 

  He hasn't said a word since he sat down-Just passing out the kind of glance that said too much without making a sound.

   My hands rest on the white linen napkin, fingers twitching against the stem of my wine glass. Keeping a tight smile plastered on my face like I just won an Oscar award. Fake, but enough to convince everyone.

   Nothing about this table seems lovely or United.

   Especially not the man who just walked in and is now sitting across from me, eyes drifting from the glass wrapped around my fingers to my face. I want to try to ignore it. His gaze-but I can't. 

   He hasn't said a word, but I can feel his gaze burning harder and harder-steady and pressing. Like a burn on my skin, only I can feel. His fingers drum lightly against his wristwatch, calm as ever, leaving my father to do all the talking. 

   Joe leans in, his breath hot against my skin."You either eat or stop playing with your food?"

   I can't take it.

   I excused myself with a soft smile and a murmured lie about needing the bathroom. The napkin fell from my lap like a flag of surrender. 

   The hallway is cooler. Quiet. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, willing my heartbeat to slow down.

   Then I heard footsteps approaching, steady and deliberate. I don't open my eyes. "Sierra, not now. Please."

   "Still running, huh?"

   I freeze.

   It's not her voice. It's not my stepsister, though I half-expected her to follow me with another snide comment about attention seeking. 

   It's him.

   The first words he's spoken since stepping foot into this house. His voice is lower now, rougher-like whiskey soaked in regret. And when I turn, I wish I hadn't.

   He leaned against the opposite wall like he owns the air between us-tall and broad, his shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, hands tucked to his pocket. His eyes drag over me like I'm something expensive but damaged. Like I'm something he wanted to throw but felt the need to keep.

   He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and I could see the bold and unfamiliar ink that runs along his forearm.

   "I almost didn't recognize you," he says. "But then I saw that mole on your collarbone..." 

   I swallowed hard. "I don't have time for this."

   "Sure you do," he replied smoothly. "You just want to run. Like always."

   I hissed under my breath and was about to push past him, but he stepped into my path, slow and in no rush to let me go. My breath catches. He's taller than I can remember. The soft edge of his boyhood is now gone, craved into something harder. His dark hair is styled into effortless perfection, like he's been preparing for this day.

   He tilts his head, eyes flicking down my body and back up-slow, deliberate. Then they meet mine, dark and unblinking. "You look good," he said, voice low, almost breathless. His pupils dilate. "Red makes your skin stand out." 

   I hate the way my chest tightened. He shouldn't still have this effect on me, not after all these years and everything that led us here. But my pulse doesn't listen.

   No one told me I looked good since I arrived here. Not even my husband. He was too busy staring at his phone while he dragged me around like a prop.

   But now... now my skin prickles. 

   I looked past him. "Move."

   "Not until you answer me."

   "There's nothing to answer."

   He laughs, bitter and low. "You left me without no solid explanation and got married to him a month later. You call that nothing?"

   My chest tightened as the memories of that night come crashing back. "It's been five years. I think you should move on."

   "I did, and you know it," he said. "I moved across oceans. Buried myself in work, and I had no interest in doing. Pretending you didn't rip a part of me when you went cold on me."

   My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. 

   He stepped closer, voice quieter. "You know... I spent a lot of time contemplating whether I should come back home. But then your father reached out to me. Inviting me to join his circus. Said it was urgent. And boom, here I am. Back home."

   Of course he did. My father only cared about business. But why work with this particular man when there are a lot of business moguls in the country? Why choose this particular man standing in front of me?

   "I don't owe you anything," I whispered, but I don't even believe it.

   He studies me. "You looked happy in the magazines and billboards I've come across. But right now, you look different."

   I glance down at the diamond ring on my left finger. It catches the light but feels like nothing. 

   He sees the flicker in my eyes, and his jaw tightened.

   "Do you love him?"

   I could feel the remaining warmth left in my body drain away. I don't answer. I can't. Because he's not genuinely asking if I love my husband-he's asking if I ever stopped loving him.

   Silence stretched between us, growing thicker than smoke.

   "Why?" He finally asks. "Why'd you leave? Why him?"

   "Maybe you can ask that question after you cut off whatever deal you have with my father, and leave," I say through clenched teeth, fighting the heat rising in my chest.

   He doesn't move. He just looks me dead in the eye, waiting for his questions to be answered.

   I shake my head. "You wouldn't understand."

   "Try me."

   I step back. "I'm not doing this. I made a choice. You have no right to question them."

   "No," he says, voice steel now. "You made a sacrifice. There's a difference."

   I blink, caught off guard. "What... what are you talking about?" 

   He leans in, and I could smell his cologne-musky and clean, the way he used to smell on winter nights after long drives. His voice is almost gentle when he speaks again.

   "I know you're not happy. I can see it in your eyes. You've got that look-that look that says your spark is beginning to fade away."

   I clenched my jaw, swallowing back the emotions threatening to break free.

   "I'm not here to ruin anything," he says. "But I deserve answers."

   My eyes sting. "Sometimes the truth hurts more than the lies."

   "I'm way past that. Hurt me," he says simply like a man who has gone through every dark shadow of life.

   I stay quiet, leaving every word he'd uttered sink in.

   He steps back with his eyes not leaving mine. "I'm done running, and I'm done hurting alone."

   The words land like a punch to my ribs. He sounds determined, and nothing I say would change his mind. And for a moment-I'm twenty again, standing under the rain, saying words I never believed I could say, walking away and breaking two hearts at once.

   But now his eyes are clear, focused and giving away nothing. His voice doesn't tremble as he speaks with finality.

   "I'm going to get my answers, one way or another."

   Then he steps past me, his shoulders brushing mine.

   And I'm left standing here, heart in my throat, wondering if, after all these years, I'm capable of surviving the truth I've buried.

RONAN CARTER

   Lillian Calloway.

   She was everywhere.

   Billboards. Magazines spread. 

   Five years. Five goddamn years. And still, there she was. Wearing a name that wasn't mine. Smiling like she hadn't once ripped me open and left me bleeding. Broken. She looked me in the eyes with nothing but pure hatred after all the promises we made together. 

   My family thought I left because I didn't want to have anything to do with them. But the truth is that I left because of her. Because I had no choice or reason to stay. 

   Staying would have killed me. Watching her slip that ring on? That would've been the final blow. 

   So I disappeared. Swore never to come back home. I spent most of my time burning my past through a lot of work. I convinced myself that the fire in my lungs was freedom-it wasn't. It was her. Still stuck at the back of my mind like a sinful prayer that would ruin me.

   Disappearing gave me space. Space to breathe, to think, to figure out who I was when I wasn't attached to the weight of my family's name. A name soaked in power and legacy, but also shadowed by choices that were never mine. I needed to be me. Just me. But more than that, I needed distance to admit what I genuinely wanted.

   Her. Always her. And wanting her meant staying far away for both of our sakes. 

   Then I got a call from my father, who told me that her father called. 

   He had pitched out a deal between our families. Something strategic. And good. Too damn good. And in that moment, I realized it was an opportunity I couldn't ignore.

   Now, I'm back.

   And that evening, at her father's estate, I sat right across from her. 

   Before coming over for dinner, I'd made one request to her father-Invite everyone, do not leave any of your family members out. I wanted her to see me. I wanted to watch her world tilt.

   And I got what I wanted when, her eyes met mine as I walked into the room and settled into my seat.

   There was the flicker of disbelief. Horror. Maybe even guilt. I could see the way her spine went rigid, fingers tightened around her glass like it might keep her grounded. She tried to smile but failed. Her posture and the way she bit her lip every time I looked her way betrayed her.

   She was squirming under my gaze. Pretending not to see me, but I know she could feel my presence like an itch on her skin. Even after all this time-

   I still had an effect on her.

   And God help me, I liked it.

   And in that moment, a final realization settled in-I was here to stay. 

   I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of Luca's voice. 

   "Ayo, Ronan," Luca said, handing me a file. "I canceled all your appointments leading up to the next meeting in two weeks. Your calendar's clear."

   He stood tall, his presence taking up the space in my study. His hair was now longer than I remembered.

   We'd kept in touch, calls here and there. It wasn't consistent, but it felt good to have someone back home checking up on me, and here he was standing by my side after all this time... yeah. It felt really good. 

   "Thanks, Luca," I said, grabbing the file. "Is the car ready?"

   "Yes. Where are we going?"

   "To the warehouse. I have something big to deal with."

LILIAN 

   The sketch pad beneath my palm is nearly full. Not with ideas, but with desperate strokes for me to escape

the sudden turn of events in my life.

   I pressed the pencil harder. As if every stroke would erase the memory of him standing at the end of the dining table. Silent and intact. Looking the same but yet different in so many ways.

   Two days, forty-eight hours. And still I couldn't get his eyes out of my head. 

   I wasn't thinking about him. I was busy focusing on my work. That's what I told myself as I flipped through the pages of my sketchbook and kept drawing another design I'd never use.

   "Jesus, Lily. You look like you're about to stab that book to death."

   I looked up, startled. Vivian stood in front of my desk, hands on her hips, wearing that what's going on with you face. 

   "How's the collection for fashion week coming along?" She asked, giving my mess of fabric swatches and crumpled designs a side-eyed glance. 

   I forced a smile. "It's going great." 

   She wasn't convinced by my answer. Not even close but she didn't push for an actual answer. Not yet.

   "So tell me, how was Saturday's dinner? You never mentioned anything about it."

   "It was good and exciting."

   The corner of her eyes crinkled as she narrowed them at me. "You sure?"

   I let my gaze linger on her for a second, weighing whether spilling everything would be better. But in the end, I settled on lying instead. 

   "Everything went fine, Vivian. You don't have to be worried about me." Before she could press further, I blurted. "Uh... coffee?"

   "You only suggest coffee when you're about to drop something that needs me to be calm. So, coffee it is. Let's go."

   The café down the block was quiet. Warm lighting, the air was filled with cinnamon and latte, people murmuring over pastries with wide smiles on their faces, like the world wasn't a ticking bomb about to explode. 

   We took our usual table in the corner-the one by the window with a clear view of Central Park. The soft velvet chair hugged us as we sat down, placed our orders, and settled in to wait.

   I should've told her everything that night, when Joe and I got home-but I was still trying to process my mess.

   "So?" She asked, eyes on me as she picked up the cup of latte the waiter just placed on the table. "What's going on? You've been twitchy for the past few days."

   I stared at her, blank. My mind a mess, but the words wouldn't just come out. Where the hell was I supposed to even start?  

   "Come on, Lily. Don't give me that look. You haven't called or messenged me in the past two day, of course I know you're hiding something. So... like I said, spill."

   I let out a slow breath, then looked straight in her eyes. 

   "You won't believe what happened."