Aria's POV
That morning, the garden felt almost cruel in its perfection. Soft sunlight spilled through the magnolia branches, scattering pale petals like confetti. It was so peaceful, so beautiful—almost mocking the chaos twisting inside her chest. The world looked calm, unaware of how shattered she felt beneath it all.
The sweet scent of magnolias floated through the air, gentle and calming—except it did nothing to soothe her. Instead, it pulled at every wound she'd tried to hide.
Her tea had gone cold in her hands. She hadn't taken a single sip. What was the use of a warm cup when the man who once left her standing in the cold was now here, beside her, offering a heat that felt as uncertain as the morning mist?
Damien didn't sit. He just stood there like a question with no easy answer, like a shadow from a promise she'd whispered years ago—back when she believed in forever, back when she believed in him.
Her voice was steady but sharp. "I read the file."
He didn't say anything right away. His silence stretched between them—careful, almost too careful. It grated at her more than she wanted to admit.
"I'm not angry about Callum," she said softly. "I get it. You did what you had to do. Maybe I would've done the same."
There was no fire in her voice. The anger she felt was quieter, like a slow-burning ache just beneath the surface.
"But I am furious," she went on, "that you thought I couldn't handle the truth. That you made that choice for me. That you decided you knew better."
His eyes dropped, voice low and pained. "I didn't know how to ask for your strength without feeling like I was stealing it."
That hit her harder than she expected.
For a second—a breath held in time—she saw the man under all the hurt and pride. And hated herself a little for understanding him.
She looked up at him, searching his face for the boy she once loved. "Do you always dress your guilt in poetry?"
A small, rueful smile tugged at his lips. "Only when I'm trying to survive your eyes."
She looked away fast, afraid he might mean it. Afraid that part of her still wanted to believe he did.
Silence stretched between them, delicate and full of things left unsaid.
"I still love you," he said quietly.
Her spine stiffened, like a cold wind had just blown through her. "You don't get to say that."
"I know," he admitted.
"No. I don't think you do." She set the cold cup down and faced him fully. "Love isn't a switch you flip on and off when it's convenient. Love stays. You didn't."
He took it all in without flinching. "I'm here now."
"Too late," she snapped.
The wind stirred the trees, shaking loose petals that drifted down like soft feathers.
"I waited for you," she whispered, barely audible, almost to herself. "Weeks. Months. I told myself you'd come back. That there was a reason you never said goodbye."
"There was."
"Don't," she cut him off sharply, stepping back. "Don't make it noble now. You shattered me, Damien. And I bled alone."
He nodded slowly, the weight of her words sinking in. "I know."
"No. You don't," she said, voice breaking. "You can't know—because if you did, you wouldn't be standing there asking me to open old wounds just because you finally found the courage to face yours."
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Good.
She wasn't done.
"You're not the only one who lost something. You're not the only one carrying scars."
"I never said you were."
"No. But you act like it." Her voice cracked, trembling. "You think showing me the truth now makes you brave? It doesn't. It makes you late."
Long silence.
Then, barely a whisper: "I'd rather be late than never."
The tears came before she could stop them—not the fiery kind that burn away the pain, but the slow, quiet ones that taste like memory and regret.
She didn't move when he reached for her hand.
But she didn't pull away.
"Why did you really come back?" she asked, voice fragile, almost too small to hear.
"To prove I still could," he said simply.
Then softer still, after a pause, "And to ask if there's anything left of us worth fighting for."
She closed her eyes, letting the silence wash over her.
All she could hear was her own uneven breath.
Then—
"I don't know."
"That's enough."
And somehow—it was.
---
Later — Aria's Bedroom, Thornewell Estate
The file lay heavy on her bedspread, like a weight she hadn't expected to carry this far. She hadn't planned to bring it inside—wanted to leave it behind in the garden, away from this softness, away from the magnolias and the fragile hope they brought.
But somehow, it felt wrong to leave it there.
Her fingers trembled just a little as she opened it again.
The confession. The paper trails. The desperate lengths Damien had gone to protect Callum. The darkness he'd walked alone. The cost he'd paid.
What haunted her wasn't what he'd done.
It was what he hadn't let her carry.
We could have survived this, she thought bitterly. If only you'd let me in.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"Come in," she said without looking up.
It wasn't Damien.
A housemaid stepped in quietly. "Mr. Thornewell asked me to deliver this." She held out a small black velvet box.
Aria hesitated.
Then took it.
The maid left.
She opened the box.
Inside, a silver magnolia pendant caught the light, delicate and simple.
On the back, engraved in tiny script:
"I remember the garden."
Her throat tightened.
Damn him.
---
Evening — Solarium Balcony
Of course, she found him there.
Just like five years ago.
Same tilt of his shoulders. Same quiet tension in the air.
But this time, he turned as soon as he sensed her presence—not after she walked away.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
She moved past him and stood at the railing.
Below, the city glittered beneath twilight, a sea of lights stretching out to the horizon.
After a long moment, she finally spoke.
"Do you remember what I said the night I left?"
He nodded, voice low. "Every word."
She faced him fully.
"Then you know this isn't forgiveness."
"I do."
"It's a beginning," she said softly. "One you have to fight for."
He stepped closer—but not too close.
"I'm already fighting," he murmured.
"Then don't stop."
And this time—
This time—
She was the one who stayed.
---