Damien's POV
She stayed.
That should've been enough to let him rest. To let him sleep.
But it wasn't.
Not when every breath he drew that night tasted like almost — almost forgiveness, almost redemption, almost hers.
He sat alone in the dark of his suite, blazer tossed aside, sleeves rolled up. The faint scent of magnolia clung stubbornly to his collar—her scent. Aria's voice echoed in his head, sharp and clear: "This isn't forgiveness. It's just the beginning."
He knew better than to mistake mercy for surrender. The scars between them didn't vanish. They weren't healed — just marked, like battle wounds neither of them had fully recovered from.
And he had no illusions. Tomorrow could still end with her gone.
But tonight, she looked at him without hate.
And for now, that was enough to keep the fire burning.
---
Next Morning — Thornewell Estate, South Wing
The house felt too quiet.
He passed the grand staircase, the old Thornewell portraits staring down with their usual regal disapproval. Ancestors who had all failed — to protect fortune, legacy, or love.
He had no plans to join their ranks.
Near the conservatory, he caught a sound — music.
A raw, aching violin melody, imperfect and alive.
He knew that sound.
Aria.
He leaned against the archway, watching quietly.
There she stood, barefoot in the center of the room, bow in hand, coaxing tentative notes from an old instrument he hadn't seen since they were… them.
She stumbled on a note and muttered softly, shaking her head.
"Still beautiful," he said softly as he stepped into the light.
She didn't turn.
"You always did eavesdrop."
"You always left the doors open."
She stopped playing but kept the violin in her hands.
"I was thinking about your mother," she said suddenly.
He blinked. "What?"
Aria looked thoughtful. "She was kind to me. Protective, even. Especially when your father made it clear I wasn't good enough."
Damien's jaw clenched. "She loved you. Told me once you were the only person who ever looked at me without expecting anything."
"Funny, isn't it?" Aria murmured. "Because I expected everything."
He stepped closer. "You deserved it all."
"But you gave me silence."
"And I've been trying to take it back ever since."
A heavy silence settled.
Then she asked quietly, "Do you ever wonder who we might've been, if you hadn't shut that door?"
"All the time."
She set the violin down and passed him.
"I'm meeting someone in the city later. A potential client."
He blinked. "You're doing events again?"
She paused at the doorway. "I didn't stop. I just learned how to do it without you watching."
He deserved that.
He followed her.
---
Afternoon — Midtown Hotel Lobby
He had no business being here.
But the moment he stepped into the Elysian Midtown, Aria's scent hit him—white florals with a sharp citrus edge.
He spotted her near the bar—graceful, poised, dressed in cream and gold like she belonged in the sunlight.
She was laughing.
With another man.
His body stiffened. The smile was polite, professional maybe, but something raw twisted deep in his gut.
He waited.
She didn't see him until she stood, purse slung over her shoulder.
Their eyes locked.
No smile. No look away.
She walked toward him like it was nothing — like five years hadn't taught them both how dangerous they were to each other.
"You followed me."
"You knew I would."
Her brow rose. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."
"Neither does that guy."
"You don't know him."
"I don't have to. I know you. That wasn't a laugh."
She held his gaze. "Don't presume you still have that right."
"I'm not presuming."
"I'm remembering."
---
Later — Rooftop Bar, Same Hotel
She didn't ask him to join.
But she didn't stop him either.
The sky above bruised in sunset colors. The city below restless and alive.
They stood by the railing, drinks untouched between them.
"I used to think the view from up here made everything feel smaller," she said.
"It does."
"Not us."
He turned to her. "No. Never us."
A beat.
Then, "He asked me out."
Damien exhaled slowly. "And?"
"I said no."
His fingers gripped the railing. "Why?"
She looked at him—really looked.
"Because I'm still angry at you. Because you still hold too many pieces of me for me to pretend someone else could fit."
Silence.
Then—
"I don't want to own you, Aria," he said softly. "I want to be worthy of the pieces you still haven't taken back."
She reached out, touching his hand briefly, lightly.
His pulse skipped.
"Say something reckless," she whispered.
His eyes burned as he answered, "Come back to the estate tonight. Let me cook for you."
She blinked. "You cook now?"
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He smiled. "One dinner. No lies. No masks."
She tilted her head. "What if I say yes?"
"I'll try not to ruin it."
She stepped back, lips trembling. "Then I'll let you try."
And she walked away.
---
Evening — Thornewell Estate, Kitchen
He nearly burned the rosemary. Twice.
By the time she arrived, he'd somehow managed steak, truffle potatoes, and her favorite wine chilled just right.
She raised a brow. "So you're a billionaire and a chef now?"
"I Googled every ingredient you ever smiled at."
She smiled. Not fully, but real.
They sat. They ate. For a while, they were just Aria and Damien.
Not ghosts. Not ruins.
Just… them.
Midway through the meal, she asked quietly, "What was your darkest moment?"
He didn't hesitate. "The night I watched you leave without saying my name."
She looked down at her glass. "You know what mine was?"
He waited.
"When I realized I never hated you. Not even once."
For a long moment, the only sound between them was the soft clink of silverware against fine china and the distant ticking of the antique clock hanging just beyond the kitchen doorway.
Damien's hand tightened gently around hers, not out of possessiveness but out of a desperate need to anchor himself in the fragile reality of this moment. He studied her face—the way her eyes glistened with the weight of confessions unspoken, how her lips quivered just enough to betray the storm of emotions she held at bay. He wanted to reach across the table and erase every pain, every lonely night she'd suffered without him. But more than that, he wanted to show her that he saw her—not the mistakes, the walls, or the silence—but the fierce woman who had somehow survived everything and still stood before him, offering a piece of herself that he once thought lost forever.
"You never hated me?" His voice was barely more than a whisper, thick with disbelief and hope. She shook her head slowly, biting her lip as if to keep a flood of feelings from spilling over.
"No. I carried everything else—anger, betrayal, fear—but never hate. You were always... you." The word hung between them like a fragile thread, connecting two souls who had wandered far but had somehow found their way back to this kitchen, this dinner, this moment. And for the first time in years, Damien believed that maybe, just maybe, love could be enough to heal what time and silence had broken.
He reached for her hand — no hesitation this time.
And she didn't tremble.