Ana slammed the bathroom door behind her.
Not because she was angry.
Because if she didn't…
She was going to scream.
The mirror showed a stranger: red lips fading, lashes smudged, eyes too wild to be calm.
I can't keep doing this.
She ripped off her earrings. Let them clatter against the marble.
The door opened behind her.
"Christian—get out."
He didn't move. "I heard you crying."
"I wasn't."
"You are."
She turned around, breath trembling. "Why do you care?"
He stepped inside, closing the distance. "Because for the first time, you're not hiding behind your journal. Or your lipstick. Or your goddamn silence."
She shook her head, trying to push past him—
But he caught her wrist.
Gently.
Always gently.
And that made it worse.
"I didn't sign up for this," she said, voice raw. "For the cameras. For your ex. For this… confusion."
He didn't interrupt.
"And I hate that I'm starting to care," she continued. "I hate that your touch lingers. I hate that I wait for your voice when you walk into a room. I hate that I felt proud when you looked at me tonight."
Christian stared at her like she'd just torn down his entire world.
"Ana—"
"No," she snapped. "You don't get to say my name like it means something. You don't get to look at me like I'm your choice when you chose this life. This fake, cold, glass box of a marriage."
His hand dropped from her wrist.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
"I didn't mean to choose you," he said finally. "But now that I have…"
He paused.
"I don't know how to stop."
Her breath caught.
"I didn't come into this to feel," he added. "But you… you make everything harder to fake."
She looked at him, heart in her throat.
"This isn't love," she said.
"No," Christian whispered. "But it could be… if you stop running. And I stop hiding."
They stood in silence.
Breathing.
And breaking.
And almost—
Almost—
She turned away first.
"I need air," she muttered.
But what she really needed was to not fall.
Because if she fell now—
She wasn't sure she'd be able to get back up.
To be continued…