The laughter faded slightly, replaced with a more serious glance from Mina. "Listen… are you really not going to say yes to Mike?"
Luna's smile thinned. "Mina…"
"I'm just saying," Mina said, softening her tone. "You know I love you. But you also know the only way you're ever going to escape your father is if you marry. And Mike—he cares about you."
Luna looked down, jaw clenched.
"Besides," Mina continued, "he literally killed a man for you. If that's not love…"
"Tonight is about you," Luna said, forcing a smile. "So worry about yourself."
Mina narrowed her eyes playfully. "You mean the wedding night? Girl… Mama told me some very interesting things about what's supposed to happen, and let's just say—" she wiggled her eyebrows—"I'm excited."
Luna rolled her eyes, laughing. "I don't want to know."
"Oh, please. It's not like you'll be getting married any time soon—"
"I definitely don't want to know."
They burst into giggles, just as Mina's mother entered, signaling it was time.
Outside, a table was set beneath the sky, candles flickering against the rising dusk. The judge waited, and the hush of the crowd settled into something reverent. Mina walked out radiant, her gown trailing behind her like a ribbon of moonlight.
Prince stood waiting, unable to stop smiling.
They exchanged vows—simple, heartfelt—and signed their certificate. Applause burst into the air. Music followed. Guests danced, hugged, toasted.
Lucas stepped forward with a velvet box and handed it to the new couple. "From the Montenegro Aguas family," he said calmly. "Congratulations."
Inside were gold coins—rare, stamped with the family crest.
Mina's eyes widened, tears welling up. "Thank you, Mr. Lucas. Thank you so much."
Luna watched quietly, then looked away before their eyes could meet. The air between them felt charged. She didn't understand why.
Later, as the crowd began to thin and people said their goodbyes, Luna searched for Louis. Her sandals tapped along the narrow stone path behind the venue, the air quieter here, the stars just beginning to appear.
She turned a corner and collided with someone.
Strong hands caught her before she could fall. The scent hit her first—clean linen and subtle musk—and when she looked up, her breath hitched.
It was him.
Lucas.
He steadied her gently, but didn't let go too quickly. For just a second longer than necessary, his hands lingered. And then he inhaled, caught off guard.
"Nice perfume," he said, his voice lower than she expected. "Where did you buy it?"
Luna, still finding her footing, blinked. "I didn't," she said. "I made it."
Lucas tilted his head, brows rising slightly. "Really?"
She nodded, brushing a curl from her cheek. "Sorry. I wasn't looking. I have to go. My brother…"
She stepped back, but her heart was still hammering. Being seen like that—being held—was dangerous. If anyone told her father…
Without another word, she turned and slipped away, her figure vanishing into the dark.
Lucas stood there, staring after her, the scent of her still lingering in the air.
He had lived in the city for years. He'd met people of power, charm, and ambition.
But none of them smelled like summer rain and mystery.
None of them smelled like her.
****
The Montenegro mansion stood in the heart of the city like a living monument towering, steeped in legacy and whispered expectations. Inside its walls were stories, secrets, and silent negotiations passed from generation to generation. Lucas knew them all. He had lived in this house long before the city called him a king.
He stepped through the grand double doors just past midnight, the house dim and still. The staff had long since retired. A few security lights glowed faintly in the hallways, casting soft shadows across the marble floors.
He didn't need a light to find his way.
Lucas moved quietly through the corridors, past the portraits of his ancestors, past his uncle's study, past the east wing where his cousins, really—were likely snoring into silk pillows. He reached the master suite, pushing the door open gently.
There she was.
Amalia.
She lay curled on her side beneath the covers, her face soft in sleep, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting on the empty space beside her—the space that belonged to him. Her long dark hair spilled like ink across the pillow. Her breathing was deep and even.
She looked peaceful. Untouched by time. Untouched by grief.
But they both knew that wasn't true.
Lucas stepped closer, watching her for a long moment. His chest tightened—not with regret, not with resentment, but with the ache of something that had once burned bright and now quietly smoldered in the dark.
They had been engaged for five years. The wedding was supposed to be the grandest the Montenegro family had ever seen. But then came the accident. The bleeding. The hospital. The child they had named before hearing its cry.
Everything had changed after that night.
Amalia never moved out. She didn't have to. The Montenegro family had welcomed her as one of their own—the future Mrs. Montenegro, the woman destined to bear the heir. But fate had rewritten that role in cruel ink.
Lucas had accepted it. He would never be a father. He had stopped hoping. And strangely, he had found peace in the acceptance.
He had begun grooming his three cousins—his uncle's sons—for the business. Teaching them, guiding them. Preparing them for the legacy that once would have gone to his own child.
But even now, as he stood by the bedside of the woman he once thought he couldn't live without… something felt different.
He leaned down, brushing a kiss across her forehead.
She didn't stir.
"Sleep well," he whispered, more to himself than to her.
Then he stepped away, stripping off the weight of the day with every button undone. The hot water of the shower hit his skin like a reset, like washing off the scent of the past and the echo of a girl who smelled like something wild and handmade. His eyes closed beneath the spray. He hadn't even meant to think of her; he brushed it off quickly.