Chapter 34
The faint aroma of spices and garlic drifted in my memory, tugging me back years.
It had been one of my birthdays, the ones I barely acknowledged, the ones I almost hated.
The house was too big, too quiet, except for the soft laughter of one girl who never cared about my walls.
Sanaa.
She had insisted on cooking for me. "Birthdays aren't for chefs, Vee. They're for me to make you something from scratch."
I stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, pretending indifference. The pan hissed and sizzled in front of her. "Sanaa, if this food is burnt, I swear I'll—"
"—you'll eat it anyway." She cut me off with that bold grin.
I rolled my eyes, but when she opened the lid, the steam carried the scent of something shockingly good. She set the plate down in front of me, biting her lip nervously.
I took a bite. Then another. Slowly, against my will, I smiled.
"It's good," I said flatly, pretending not to be impressed. But inside, I was. And I saw it, from the corner of my eye, the family's head chef, peeking from the kitchen, hiding his smile.
Of course he did.
He'd clearly guided her through every step, but I didn't say a word. I let her glow.
"Thank you," I said finally. "For cooking. On my birthday."
Her face lit up. She leaned back in her chair, proud of herself. And for a fleeting moment, the weight of the world didn't matter.
I wasn't a Versace heir. I wasn't in the mafia. I was just a girl, with a friend who insisted on filling the silence with warmth.
DUN.
For a moment, I thought the city itself was playing tricks on me. I shut my eyes tight and reopened them slowly.
The lights blurred, the skyline swayed, and the world tunnelled into that single spotlight. The silhouette stepped closer, the warmth of brown skin catching in the glow, curls spilling over her shoulders just as I remembered.
My throat closed. My lungs refused to work. I hit my hand on my chest, struggling to breathe.
It couldn't be.
Not her.
Not the girl whose ghost had carved caverns in my chest.
Not the girl whose laughter I had forced myself to forget, because remembering hurt more than death itself.
Not my reason for therapy.
Yet her voice carried through the night, unshaken, intimate, breaking me open with two words:
"Happy birthday, Habibi."
The sound detonated inside me. The air was suddenly too heavy, the rooftop tilting beneath my boots.
No one else, called me by that name.
I blinked.
My heart screamed that it wasn't possible. My mind hissed that I had finally snapped, that grief had dressed itself in hallucination.
But my eyes... my eyes saw Sanaa.
Alive.
Her smile trembled, as if she too knew she wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
My knees weakened. My lips parted, a sob clawing its way up.
"No," I whispered, stepping back, fingers curling tight against my palm. "No. You can't be—"
She stepped closer, and my heart split open. "Habibi," she whispered.
The world tilted. My knees weakened.
That single word crushed me, cracked me open, left me raw. My chest hurt, as though every memory I'd buried had come clawing back at once.
Alive. She was alive.
I stumbled backward, clutching the railing, my vision swimming. I couldn't breathe.
A memory struck me; one I'd tried to bury.
Sitting curled up on my bed, knees drawn to my chest, blanket twisted around me. The doctor had come, home therapy, a voice of reason in my chaos.
"You've been struggling with anxiety and grief," he had said, voice calm. "The episodes—your flashbacks—they're normal reactions to trauma."
"I'm losing it," I whispered then, voice muffled against my knees. "I want to... I want to join her."
Tears had streamed down my face that day, heartbroken and raw, body shaking. I had thought I would never feel normal again, that the emptiness would swallow me whole.
I remembered the broken mirror, shards glittering under my feet, my hands cut, my reflection shattered, every piece a reminder of what I had lost.
And now, here she was.
Fucking breathing.
Then, from the shadows behind her, another voice. Low. Steady. Dangerous in its gentleness. Broad shoulders I knew too well.
"Happy birthday, Ara."
Dominic.
The monster who had broken me, the man whose hands had written death across my heart.
He walked forward; eyes locked on me. His expression wasn't smug this time. It was calm, almost tired. He looked at me like he was surrendering something he'd held too long.
"Of all the surprises I thought of, this is my gift to you. I couldn't stand watching you broken without her. And the hatred in your eyes. I wouldn't let myself take this from you too."
The world spun.
My tears thickened, falling hot and reckless. My heart split in two directions, toward the sister, the best friend I had mourned, and toward the man I had sworn to hate.
And before I could stop myself, my feet chose.
I ran.
Past Sanaa's trembling smile, past the ghost I had yearned for.
And straight into the arms of Dominic.
He stiffened. Shock cracked across his features, as if he had braced for hatred, not this.
I slammed my fists into his chest, over and over, sobbing so hard the sky itself-blurred.
"I knew it. I knew it!" I choked, voice ragged. "I knew you wouldn't kill her! I knew, oh my God. I knew!"
My fists lost strength, curling into his shirt. He caught me, strong arms locking around me, grounding me against the storm inside my chest.
"You're alive," I whispered, voice shaking. "You're both alive. I don't—I can't—"
"You can," Dominic murmured into my hair. "Ara, you can."
I looked up at him then. His hazel eyes locked on mine, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, it felt like gravity had shifted. His gaze saw through every broken piece of me, and I hated him for it.
I hated him for giving me this. For being the one I ran to.
"I hate you," I whispered, voice hoarse. "I think."
His smirk was faint, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't think, Ara. Just feel."
The city spun beneath us, the rooftop buzzing with silence, a cool breeze ruffling my hair, carrying faint rain and asphalt. And for the first time in years, I let myself collapse, not into Sanaa, not into the ghost of the past, but into Dominic.
His shirt smelled faintly of smoke and cologne, grounding me, anchoring me to reality amid the chaos of my heart.
I hated him. But at that moment, I needed him more than air.
My chest caved in, and I stumbled forward, fists hammering into his chest.
"Thank you—" My voice cracked, strangled. I slammed my fist again, harder, my knuckles aching. "Thank you for not killing her. I knew it, I knew, oh my God—I knew! It didn't make sense."
Tears poured, hot and blinding. My whole body shook as I beat against him, each word punctured by sobs. "I knew you wouldn't. I just knew it. I knew—"
Through it all, Dominic didn't move. He didn't flinch. His chest absorbed every blow, every ounce of my fury and relief. Then his arms locked around me, tight, unyielding. He crushed me to him, his hand firm against the back of my head, the other around my waist as though he'd never let go.
I broke. I wept into him, my body sagging against his hold.
"I hate you," I choked out, gasping between sobs. My voice was raw, trembling. "I hate you, old man."
For a moment, there was only silence. My tears soaking his shirt, the sound of my own shaking breath. Then I felt it, his chest vibrating with a low chuckle.
He tilted his head down, eyes catching mine, hazel and soft all at once. "We're back to the nicknames again?" he murmured, lips curved into that infuriating smile.
My broken laugh caught between sobs. My chest hurt, my body trembled. But for the first time since the day, I'd lost her, I wasn't entirely hollow.
Behind me, Sanaa's voice was small, shaken. "Vee...?"
But I couldn't look at her. Not yet. Not when my world was still bleeding open.
All I could do was cling to Dominic, hating him, thanking him, needing him, everything at once, because he hadn't taken Sanaa from me after all.
He had given her back.