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."

LILLIAN

   TWO WEEKS LATER

   "You and Mr Blackwell looked good at your parents estate on Saturday," the interviewer said with a bright, cheerful voice. "Can you tell us what always keeps you smiling?"

  I smiled. Or at least I tried to. 

   "Absolutely," I said, folding my hands in my lap, like the proper, composed woman I was always taught to be. "Joe is my best friend. We support each other in everything we do and that alone strengthens our relationship."

   The interviewer hummed, pleased as she scribbled what I had just said, like she knew she was about to make a great deal out of this interview. My publicist exhaled behind her, relieved. Everyone always wanted the fairytale. 

   They just never bother to know if the princess ever forgot who the hell she was.

   I was just about to head into my office when the interviewer's voice stopped me.

   "You don't mind us uploading the photos with your article, right?"

   I turned to look at her with a tight smile. "Yeah, no problem. Go ahead." 

   Not waiting for anymore questions, I quickly headed back to my office to get ready for my counseling session with Joe, when I got a text from Vivian wishing me good luck with my interview and also my first session.

   I still remember her reaction when I told her about Saturday night dinner.

   "I saw him," I announced.

   Her coffee cup froze midair, hovering just below her lips. Her eyes grew wide before she went completely still, like my words had just knocked the air out of her. 

   "At dinner," I continued, "the one my father hosted on Saturday evening? He walked in like a man who had everyone's lives in the palm of his hands."

   She blinked and sat up straight in her seat. Who?"

   I looked up. My face must've said everything-every name I didn't want to say, every memory I hadn't touched in years. She saw it. I knew she did. 

   She blinked. Once. Twice.

   "No," she whispered. "You're kidding."

   "I wish.

   Her voice dropped. "But your dad and Joe... they  still don't have a clue, right? About you two?"

   "No one knows and it will stay like that," I muttered. 

   "But he disappeared without a word. Why now?" She said, rolling her eyes. "Lily, I have a bad feeling about this and I don't like it."

   To be honest, she was saying things I hadn't dared myself to say out loud-thoughts that had been circling my head for weeks. And now, hearing them spoken back to me without a single beat... it rattled me. Like she reached in and pulled the truth out of my chest, and held it up to the light. It scared the hell out of me.

   I told her everything. How it started, what he said, and the look he had in his eyes. 

   She didn't take it well... she lost it. Not just mad, furious. Pacing, swearing, nearly throwing her coffee across the cafè. "You've got to be kidding me." She hissed. "He said that? To you?"

   Now she won't leave me alone. My phone hasn't stopped buzzing ever since. She's worried. I can feel it in the way she keeps checking up on me.

    I checked my watch-shit. It's almost 2:00 pm.

    The session starts in thirty minutes.

   I shoved back my chair and sprinted out of my office, heels thudding against the floor, not wasting another second.

   *~*~*~*~*~*

   Of course, there's traffic. The car in front of mine barely moved, boxed in as the streets of New York were filled with the bleating noise of horns and angry drivers. My fingers drum against the steering wheel, faster with every passing second.

   My phone buzzes. I glanced down.

   Joe:- Hurry. Our session starts soon.

   No "Are you okay?" No "where are you?" Just orders, like I'm his goddamn assistant running late. I exhaled hard through my nose, resisting the urge to throw my phone into the passenger seat.

   I swerved into a side street the moment the traffic loosened. The tires screech. A horn blares. I don't care. 

   By the time I reached the building, I was halfway jogging from the parking lot, heels clicking hard against concrete, hair sticking to the back of my neck. Breath caught in my throat, jaw clenched as I yanked the door open and rushed through the lobby, straight to the front desk.

   "Couples counseling?" I asked, breath short.

   The receptionist didn't bother looking up."Fifteenth floor. That's the top."

   I nodded once, already heading to the elevator, and hit the button to the fifteenth floor. The elevator moved slowly like it knew I was in a hurry.

   Finally,

   The elevator door slid open with a low hiss. I stepped out, barely two steps into the hallway, when Joe stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

   He stood there, motionless, but everything about him was tight. His shoulders were rigid. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked on me, unblinking. The silence between us stretched, heavier by the second, until he finally spoke. 

   "You're late," he said under his breath.

   "I told you last night I had an interview."

   "You didn't say you'd be late."

   "I would have arrived earlier than this, but I was stuck in traffic."

   He gave me a look. "You should have mentioned that."

   "I'm not doing this right now." I snapped.

   "You're being a little-"

   Before anything could erupt, a voice broke through the tension. A woman who I hadn't noticed when I arrived sat near the counselor's office, likely his assistant. 

   "Mr and Mrs Blackwell? Dr. Carter will see you now."

   I blinked.

   "Carter?"

   "Yes, ma'am," she said, smiling. "He's waiting."

   My stomach clenched, threatening to bring out everything I've eaten in the past few days. There's no way. No. This can't be happening. 

   I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to settle my nerves. I'm just being ridiculous and overdramatic over nothing. A lot of people are named Cater-it's a common name.

   Joe didn't wait. He pushed the door open and walked into the office, leaving me behind with my spiraling thoughts.

   I wiped my sweaty palm on my jeans and followed, heart pounding against my rib like it was composing its horror song. 

   And then... I saw him. 

   Seated behind a dark mahogany desk. Dark suit that matches his surroundings. Leaning back in his chair like he'd been waiting all day for me to arrive.

   Ronan Carter.

   My throat closed.

   He rose slowly, a smile tugging at his mouth, shadows catching on the sharp lines of his face. Then he walked over and held out his hand.

   "And hello," he said, voice calm, but laced with danger, "Mrs Blackwell."