49. Lies
Every night I cried myself to sleep.
I felt- still feel- like an idiot for leaving him, for saying, "You aren't made for love"
When all he did was make me feel so loved, so special, like I could ask him for the world and he'd give it to me. I wanted to be his safe space, I should've protected him, but I ended things that night.
The deal with Hunt made me do it.
Some nights, I swear I can still feel him behind me. His arm heavy around my waist. His face buried in my hair.
I still crave his touch, his arms, his scent. The way his thumb traces lazy circles against my hip when he thinks I'm asleep.
I crave his touch so badly it physically hurts.
I even stole 3 of his hoodies.
Pathetic, right?
They're folded at the bottom of my wardrobe like contraband. I wear them when the nights get too loud. The sleeves swallow my hands. They still smell faintly like him, and help me fall asleep.
Not like he'd notice they're gone.
He probably doesn't even care about me anymore.
That's the thought that hurts the most.
Not the threats.
Not the lies I had to tell.
But the possibility that he believed me.
That he looked at me after I said those words and thought- she never loved me or it was all a game to her.
If he only knew.
If he knew that every breath without him feels wrong.
That every room feels colder.
That I'd give anything to take back that night.
But I had left like an idiot. I'm the loner and loser- not him
I had called my brother, Adrian, the same night and asked him to get me the next flight to Paris immediately.
I couldnt stay here anymore, when everything reminded me of him, every memory we spent together, be it the gym, the coffee shop, restaurants, arcades
Everything reminded me of him.
The next day, I reached home.
Paris greeted me with its usual elegant blue clear skies hanging low over iron balconies, quiet wealth lining every boulevard, my driver already waiting at arrival like nothing in the world ever shifted out of place.
The gates opened smoothly.
Familiar.
Grand.
Unchanged.
But everything inside me had.
Mama and Papa were in the sunlit sitting room when I walked in. Morning light poured through the tall windows, catching the gold frames and cream upholstery, turning the entire space into something warm and timeless.
Mama stood the second she saw me. Silk rustled as she crossed the room, her perfume wrapping around me before her arms did.
"Ma princesse," she breathed, kissing both my cheeks. "You're back already?"
(my princess)
Papa lowered his glasses slowly, studying me over the rim the way he does when he senses something beneath the surface.
"How was New York?" Mama asked gently. "How was the ballet program?"
Ballet.
That's what they thought.
A graceful explanation. A safe one. Something that fit neatly into our world of art and refinement.
"It was fine" I said.
The lie slid too easily off my tongue.
Papa nodded, satisfied enough. "Good. Your mother was worried you were overworking yourself."
Mama turned to him with a soft frown. "You were worried too!"
He smiled slow, fond, completely undone by her. "Of course I was," he said, reaching for her hand. "But you panic more than I do, mon ange."
My angel.
She pretends to roll her eyes, but her fingers lace through his automatically. They've been married for decades and still stand too close. Still look at each other like the room is secondary.
Papa brushes a stray strand of hair from her face without thinking. Mama smooths the crease in his sleeve in return.
Small touches.
Effortless intimacy.
The kind of love that is steady. Respected. Chosen every day.
And suddenly my chest aches.
Because that's what I had.
Something worth fighting.
All-consuming.
And I let it go.
"Come sit, ma princesse," Papa says, opening his arm for me. "You look tired."
If only they knew. If only exhaustion came from rehearsals and not heartbreak.
I sit between them, letting Mama fuss over me while Papa pours tea. Their shoulders brush as they move around each other in practiced harmony.
Mama cups my face gently. "You'll rest for a few days. No pressure. We'll cancel anything unnecessary."
Papa nods. "Your well-being matters, princesse"
The irony almost makes me laugh.
If they knew the truth that I ended the one relationship that ever made me feel fully alive to protect their empire.
They looked at me together with love in their eyes for their daughter.
So I smiled and I lied.
And I sit in a house filled with the kind of love I just destroyed for myself.
-----
The house is quieter after midnight.
The staff has retreated. The gowns have been hung. The jewels locked away. The headlines are already being drafted somewhere online.
But I can't hear any of that.
All I can see are gray eyes across a ballroom.
I'm sitting in the living room with my family, in a hoodie, flip flops as I kicked off my heels somewhere near the sofa. Mama has changed into silk loungewear. Papa has loosened his tie. Adrian leans against the fireplace, scrolling through his phone.
They're relaxed.
I am not.
Because he was there.
In a gray suit.
Standing in a room that had no right to hold him and yet he looked like he belonged more than anyone else.
Those eyes.
God.
I would recognize them anywhere.
Storm-gray. Intense. Focused. The kind of eyes that soften only when they look at you like you're something worth protecting.
When they landed on me tonight my heart forgot how to beat.
I thought I imagined him at first.
But no.
He was real.
Solid.
Watching.
"Amara." Adrian's voice snaps me back.
I blink.
He's studying me the way Papa does except Adrian doesn't hide it behind subtlety.
"Why do you look so off guard after the gala?"
My throat tightens.
Mama glances over gently. Papa pauses mid-sip of tea.
Shit. Is it that obvious?
"Oh?" I force a small shrug. "I'm just tired."
The lie feels thinner tonight.
Adrian doesn't look convinced.
"You were fine before we left," he says casually. Too casually. "Then something happened."
Nothing gets past him.
"Uhm, its my first gala after 8 months.." i say, faking a yawn "it felt different and I'm sleepy."
Mama frowns, "It was overwhelming. I told your father we shouldn't have had you stand for so long."
Papa waves her off softly. "Mon ange, she's stronger than she looks."
I almost laugh at that.
If only he knew.
If only he knew that one look from a man across a room had reduced me to this.
"I'll go upstairs?" I say gently, already rising before they can question it further.
Mama reaches for my hand as I pass. "Sleep, ma princesse."
Adrian's eyes linger on me.
He knows something.
He doesn't say it.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
I turn and walk toward the staircase.
Each step feels heavier than the last.
Because now the image is replaying in my mind in cruel detail —
The grey suit.
The way his shoulders squared when he saw me.
The way he didn't look surprised.
Just... certain.
Did he come for me?
Did he hate me?
Did he believe me when I told him he wasn't made for love?
My chest tightens as I reach my bedroom door.
He's here.
He is sitting on my bed, looking completely out of place, his hair is messy, his knuckles are bruised.
I pinch myself, to check if its real.
Shit. I wince
He finally looks up, "Missed me, Swan?" he smirks, lazy and teasing, but his eyes hold a hint of pain.
"Or are you just stunned that I fucking managed to get through your security system?"