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."

LILLIAN 

   The receptionist was saying something, but her voice was a dull hum as I froze at the threshold of the office. My body locked in as my hands gripped to my purse tightly, hearth jackhammering like it wanted out of my chest.

   Him.

   He was the last person I expected to see in this room, in this building, in this role of all things.

   The marriage counselor.

   My throat went dry, my pulse a frantic drum against my ribs, heat flooding me in an instant. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath until the edges of my vision blurred, and still, I couldn't move; every one of my muscles had gone stiff, like I might snap in half if I moved an inch.

   "Babe?" Joe's voice cut through the ringing in my head, sharp with irritation. "What the hell are you doing? Sit down ."

   I blinked, yanked out of my spiraling thoughts, and managed a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. My legs felt stiff as I forced them forward, each step heavier than the last. 

   The office smelled faintly of cedar mixed with the smell of the ocean, the kind of natural scent meant to put one's mind at ease. My body, though, was screaming the opposite. 

    I lowered myself onto the far end of the three-seater sofa, careful to leave little space between Joe and me, careful not to look directly at the man now sitting across from us. But it didn't matter. His presence pressed on me like the weight in my chest, suffocating and impossible to ignore. 

   He sat in a large mahogany armchair five feet away, posture too composed, notebook easily balanced in one hand. His other hand held a pen, but I couldn't focus because my eyes betrayed me, flicking to his jaw-lost in the way it flexed when he swallowed.

   God, Lillian, get a grip on yourself. 

   "You okay?" Joe asked, eyebrows pulling tight as he studied me. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

   If only he knew. 

  "I'm fine," I said quickly, my voice higher than I wanted. I tugged my sleeve down, twisting the fabric around my finger until it burned.

   "Wait a second," Joe said suddenly, making my stomach clench. He leaned forward, his gaze narrowing on the man across from us. "I remember you from the family dinner two weeks ago. Ronan, right?"

    I looked at the counselor, but his face gave nothing away. 

   "Yes," he said. 

   Joe chuckled under his breath. "What a coincidence," Joe muttered, settling back.

   Ronan. The sound of his name scraped through my head, raw and unwelcome. I wouldn't say it. In my head, he was safer as the counselor, nothing more.

   The counselor cleared his throat, giving a short nod. "Welcome. Since this is your first session, we'll keep it simple," he said, his tone professional, cool. 

   Simple? Nothing about this was simple.

   "Tell me," he continued, gaze flicking between us like we were just another couple, another set of problems to fix. "What brought you both here today?"

   I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, waiting and hoping Joe would speak first. He did. 

   His laugh was short, bitter. "We're here because my wife has this ridiculous idea in her head about divorce." He turns sharply towards me, his knee bumping mine, and his voice hardened. "I figured a professional could talk some sense into her."

   Heat crawled up my neck. The words stung, not because they were new but because he said them so easily, like he was a news reporter. My hands twisted harder, nails digging into my palm. 

   For a fraction of a second, I saw it-the way the counselor's jaw tightened, the faint tic near his temple. His pen pressed harder into the pad, the tiniest shift, but my chest ached at the familiarity of it. He didn't like what he heard. Or maybe I was imagining it.

   Maybe I wanted to imagine it.

   "Divorce is a strong word," the counselor said finally, his tone even and unreadable. "Why do you feel that way?" 

   Joe scoffed. "Why? Because she obviously doesn't know what she wants. She thinks leaving will solve her problems, but she doesn't realize what she's throwing away."

   His knee pressed into mine again, harder this time, like a warning, making my throat lock up.  

   I kept my eyes down, studying the ridges of my knuckles and my fresh red nail polish. Don't look at him. Don't. But my gaze betrayed me again, skimming up just enough to catch the counselors watching me-no, assessing me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

   His eyes slid away when Joe leaned back, arms crossing like he'd won something.

   "Do you agree with that?" The counselor asked me, voice softer now, directed only at me.

   My mouth opened, then shut. I forced words out, each one shaky. "I think... I think marriage shouldn't feel like a battlefield every day."

   The air shifted. Joe exhaled sharply, irritation snapping off him like sparks. "See? Drama. Always drama."

   Something flickered in the counselor's expression. His pen stilled. For a heartbeat too long, his gaze stayed on me, like he was holding back words he had no right to say in this room.

   But it was gone. He nodded, scribbling something down. "What's important is that both of your feelings are heard in this space." 

   I tried to anchor myself, but my body betrayed me, foot bouncing, chest tight, the urge to flee shimmering in my veins. Joe kept talking, his voice filling every corner of the office. He listed his complaints like he was reading through a grocery list, each word laced with frustration.

   She doesn't listen.

   She doesn't try.

   She doesn't care.

   I winced, wanting to say something, but it felt like my lips were sealed together. And through it all, the counselor sat steady, pen scribbling, gaze flickering between us. But I noticed. I noticed the way his jaw ticked when the words got cruel, the way his eyes raked over me, quick, sharp, then gone.

   Delusional, I told myself. That's all it is. I can't afford to think otherwise.

   "Do you think counseling will change her mind?" The counselor asked finally, directing it to Joe.

   "It's better," Joe muttered. "Otherwise, me paying $500 per hour is going to be a waste of time."

   I rolled my eyes, is he being for real? He literally

suggested this and is here complaining about the price like he doesn't have a fucking trust fund and makes a lot of money every year. 

   The counselor leaned back, his expression unreadable now, pen resting against his lips. His eyes cut to mine-just for a second, just enough to make my chest seize.

   He looked at me like I was transparent, like he could see all my dirty little secrets, like the secrets I bury are the reflection of the burdens I carried.

   The session wrapped up not long after, but the tension didn't ease. Not in my muscles not in my lungs. We stood, Joe already halfway to the door, and I lingered only a moment, trying to collect myself together.

   "Running doesn't erase the past."

   My stomach dropped. I fumbled with the strap of my bag, my palm damp with sweat. 

   I forced my legs to move. But the words 'you're so fucked' echoed, louder and louder, long after the door shut behind me.