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📖 Chapter 3 — Echoes of Who We Are
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Adrian's footsteps were soft on the marble stairs, yet each one echoed in Mira's chest like a drum. She met him just inside her sitting room, the doors to her balcony still open behind her, cool night air curling around them.
For a moment, neither spoke. The space between them seemed charged with something Mira couldn't quite name—an ache, a yearning, maybe even dread.
He looked the same as always: dark hair falling a little messier across his brow than usual, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, watch glinting under the chandelier. But his eyes—deep brown, almost black in this light—held a tenderness that made Mira's breath stutter.
"You shouldn't keep coming here like this," she managed finally, voice thinner than she intended. "It's late. People will talk."
"Let them," Adrian said simply. He took a slow step closer. "I wanted to see you."
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She hated how much that meant to her.
She turned away, moving toward a small cabinet where her old sheet music was stored. Anything to keep her hands busy, to hide the trembling that threatened her composure.
"Did you see Elena?" she asked after a beat, forcing lightness she didn't feel. "She's settling in well. Everyone adores her. They should—it's her rightful place."
There was a pause so long it stretched painfully. Then his quiet voice: "Is that really what you think?"
Mira let out a brittle laugh. "Isn't it obvious? She's the real daughter. She belongs here. I… was just living on borrowed time."
She risked a glance over her shoulder. Adrian was watching her with an intensity that burned. His jaw tightened.
"Don't," he said.
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She blinked. "Don't what?"
"Don't talk about yourself like that. Like you're just some mistake the Songs happened to raise."
Her throat tightened painfully. "But I am. Adrian, I'm not blind. I see how things have changed—how everyone looks at me now. How carefully they try not to show it."
He shook his head, stepped forward until he was close enough she could feel the faint warmth radiating off him. "And what about me, Mira? Have I changed? Do you think I care one bit about what blood runs through your veins?"
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His words undid her. She clenched her hands so tightly the edge of a sheet of music sliced into her palm. The small sting almost helped—almost.
"That's different," she whispered. "Your family might not think so. The Chens have always wanted an alliance with the Songs. You think they'll still approve if you're… with someone who isn't even—"
She didn't get to finish. Adrian reached out, carefully pried the paper from her grip, then folded her hand between both of his. His fingers were warm, calloused in ways that spoke of weekends spent sailing or helping with old family charity builds. Not soft, pampered hands, despite the suits and cufflinks.
"My parents might care," he admitted. "The industry might care. But you know what, Mira? I don't give a damn. They don't get to decide who I love."
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She flinched at the word. "Love? Adrian…"
"Yes," he said, almost fiercely. "Love. Do you really think I spent all these years by your side because I liked the idea of business dinners with your father? Because I needed to strengthen some future merger?"
His hands tightened around hers, eyes searching her face. "I stayed because of you. Because even when you were spoiled and a little sharp-tongued, you were also kind. You were the first person who ever waited in the rain for me outside my grandfather's funeral—do you remember that? Everyone else was worried about their shoes or their PR photos. But you stood there with no umbrella and just… held my hand."
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Mira felt her chest seize, tears suddenly pricking her eyes. She had forgotten. It was years ago, before either of them really understood grief. Her own father had offered solemn condolences, but she'd slipped away from her mother's side, found Adrian standing by a line of gray stone markers, looking impossibly lost.
She'd taken his hand then, not knowing what to say, only knowing it felt wrong to leave him alone. He'd squeezed back so hard her fingers ached.
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Now, standing in her quiet sitting room with the perfume of cherry blossoms drifting in from the balcony, she didn't know how to hold on to her bitterness. It melted under the weight of his memories, their shared history.
"Adrian," she breathed, voice shaking. "I don't know how to be… anything without all this. Without the Song name. I keep thinking—what if I'm not enough on my own? What if who I really am is just… empty?"
He let out a soft, almost broken laugh, as if her pain wounded him. "Mira Song, you are the least empty person I've ever known. You're stubborn and clever and you care far more than you let anyone see. You think I don't notice how you sneak extra bonuses to the staff at New Year? Or how you wrote thank-you cards to every doctor after your accident, even the ones you barely met?"
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She didn't even realize she was crying until he brushed a tear from her cheek. His thumb lingered, slow and reverent.
"Stop trying to measure your worth by a family tree," he whispered. "If everything else fell away tomorrow—if we were living in some cramped apartment with leaking pipes—I'd still want you. Just you."
Her breath hitched. The ache inside her was so sharp it was almost sweet.
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For a long moment, they stood like that. Her hand cupped in his, his forehead dipping until it rested lightly against hers. Their breaths mingled, soft and uncertain.
Then, too quickly, she pulled back. Fear still ruled her, tangled deep with old instincts of self-preservation.
"I need time," she managed. "Everything's still… I don't know who I am yet."
Adrian nodded, though she could see the flicker of disappointment he quickly masked. "Then I'll wait. As long as it takes."
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He stepped back, gave her a small, wry smile that didn't reach his eyes. Then he turned and left, the echo of his departure stretching long and hollow through the corridor.
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🌸
Later that night, Mira couldn't sleep. She wandered to the balcony, wrapping a light shawl around her shoulders. Below, the garden was bathed in moonlight, petals from the cherry trees scattered like pale confetti on the stones.
She thought of Adrian's hands, strong and gentle. Of the way his voice had cracked when he spoke about loving her. And of Elena—sweet, gentle Elena, who was slowly becoming the rightful jewel of the Song household.
Who am I, if not Mira Song the heiress? she wondered. If not the girl destined to marry into another empire and hold charity balls in her mother's honor?
She didn't have the answer. Not yet.
But she clutched a fragile hope that maybe—someday—she would.
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🌸
The next morning brought new complications.
She was halfway through her tea on the patio when her mother arrived, moving with that particular brand of purposeful grace that signaled Important Family Business.
"Mira, darling," she began, smoothing her skirt as she sat. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
Mira tensed. "Of course."
"It's about your living arrangements." Her mother hesitated, folding and unfolding her hands. "With Elena here now, and so many reporters starting to circle… we think it might be best if you had a space of your own for a while. Just until things settle."
It shouldn't have hurt. It was practical. Smart, even. Elena deserved space to bond with the family that was rightfully hers.
But it did hurt. Deeply.
"I see," Mira said, carefully keeping her voice level. "Do you want me to leave today?"
Her mother's face crumpled, a hint of tears glistening. "No, no—there's no rush. We've set up a very generous account for you. You can find a lovely apartment, or even buy a small house outright. This is still your family, Mira. We'll always be here for you."
Just… from a little farther away now. The unspoken words rang louder than anything.
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That night, Mira lay awake staring at her ceiling. The chandelier above cast delicate shadows that looked almost like vines, curling and twisting over the walls.
Her life as she knew it was ending. But maybe—maybe that wasn't entirely a tragedy. Maybe this was the universe, or whatever gods watched from above, giving her a chance to find out who she was when stripped of titles and expectations.
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🌸
The next morning, she started looking at listings. Small apartments on the quieter side of the city. Modest buildings with warm brick facades, narrow streets bustling with flower sellers and corner cafés.
It was terrifying. But also, strangely, thrilling.
And as she closed her laptop that afternoon, she whispered into the empty room: "It's okay. I'll make this work. I promise."