Rebecca tilted the bottle of wine to her lips, taking long, slow sips between shaky breaths. The bitter liquid burned down her throat, pooling like fire in her stomach, but it wasn't enough—not enough to drown out the roaring in her head, not enough to erase the image of them standing at the altar, bound in vows meant to last a lifetime.
She laughed, a hollow, fractured sound that barely carried through the dimly lit room.
"Why?"
Leo remained silent, his sharp gaze locked onto her, watching as she wiped the back of her hand against her lips, smearing wine and tears alike.
Rebecca let out a shuddering breath, shaking her head as if she could dislodge the thoughts clawing at her mind. "Why didn't he love me?" Her voice wavered, splintered with something raw—something ugly.
The wine bottle trembled in her grasp. Her fingers, adorned with rings that once signified power, now gripped the glass like a lifeline. The deep red liquid sloshed inside, catching the dim glow of the candelabras that flickered weakly against the heavy drapes. Shadows danced along the polished wooden floors, stretching like phantoms in the suffocating silence.
Leo should have left. He had no reason to stay, no reason to entertain the pitiful musings of a woman who had done nothing but cause pain. And yet, he didn't move.
Rebecca took another sip before continuing, her voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly would make it all too real.
"I loved him to the point of exhaustion." Her grip on the bottle tightened, her knuckles paling. "I did everything—everything—for him. I endured being a pawn for my family because I thought… as long as I loved him, as long as he at least liked me back, then it was worth it."
She gave a bitter chuckle, low and humorless. "And it was good, wasn't it? Noha didn't love me, not the way I loved him, but he respected me. He was kind. He never turned away from me."
Her fingers trembled as she took another drink, longer this time, as if trying to drown herself in the wine. The rich scent of it filled the space between them, mingling with the faint trace of jasmine that still clung to her skin, though its sweetness had long since faded.
"And then she appeared."
Her voice darkened, and Leo caught the way her jaw clenched, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly.
Rebecca's green eyes flickered toward him, sharp despite the haze of alcohol clouding them. She was searching—for answers, for understanding, for something she would never find in him.
"You loved Lily, didn't you, Leo?" Her gaze pinned him, unwavering. "You know how it feels to be cast aside."
Leo said nothing.
She let out another quiet laugh, tilting her head as she studied her reflection in the wine bottle. The candlelight distorted her image, stretching it, warping it—just as her love had warped into obsession, just as her pride had twisted into desperation.
"Then tell me—was it because I wasn't innocent and pure like Lily?" She swayed slightly, her grip tightening around the bottle. "Was it because my hair is black instead of golden? My eyes green instead of blue? Is that why Noha never looked at me the way he looked at her?"
Leo exhaled through his nose. Ridiculous.
Rebecca Maples was no ordinary woman—she was breathtaking. Unlike Lily's delicate, gentle beauty, Rebecca was striking, commanding. A woman who had once made people bow with a single glance. She had been the embodiment of nobility's power and pride.
People would kill to have her.
But it was never about beauty.
And yet, Leo couldn't give her the answer she wanted.
"You already know why," he said finally, his voice as cold as the air in the room, as distant as the moonlight seeping through the curtains.
Rebecca let out a slow, shaky breath. Her fingers trembled as she brought the bottle to her lips once more.
Yes. She knew.
She had always known.
But to accept it would mean acknowledging that no matter how much she had loved Noha—no matter how much she had sacrificed—he was never hers to begin with.
And that truth hurt more than anything else.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the window, making the flames in the candelabras flicker. The golden light trembled, throwing fleeting shadows across the carved furniture, the plush velvet curtains, the untouched papers on the mahogany desk.
Rebecca let her head fall back against the bedpost, her body sagging as the weight of reality pressed down on her. The bottle slipped from her fingers, tilting precariously before landing with a dull thud against the floor, red liquid bleeding onto the rug.
Her eyes fluttered shut, her breath unsteady. "I have nothing now, do I?"
Leo didn't answer.
Instead, he turned, his footsteps echoing against the floor as he walked toward the door. He had no reason to stay. No reason to comfort her.
But just as his hand touched the doorknob, he hesitated.
The silence behind him felt heavy. Too heavy.
Rebecca Maples—the woman who once commanded the court with an iron will, the woman who had fought so hard, so ruthlessly to keep what was never hers—now sat crumpled on the floor, drowning in a grief that had no cure.
Leo closed his eyes for a moment before exhaling softly.
Then, without another word, he stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
Rebecca didn't move.
And the room, filled with the scent of wine and fading jasmine, remained utterly still.
Rebecca staggered away from the bed, each step a battle against the tide of her despair. The heavy silence of the room pressed in around her, thick and suffocating. The air reeked of spilt wine—ripe, heady, clinging to her breath as she moved. The candlelight flickered uncertainly, its glow distorted by the glass of half-empty bottles littering the table, their reflections stretching like ghosts across the polished floor.
Her body swayed, unsteady, but she refused to let it slow her down. She reached out with sudden desperation, her fingers closing around Leo's collar in a frenzied grip.
The fabric of his coat was cool beneath her shaking hands, crisp and unyielding—so unlike her own form, feverish from drink and emotion. The sharp scent of him, clean and untouched by the staleness of alcohol, contrasted with the disorder suffocating the room. His presence, still and composed, only heightened the discord within her.
For a long, agonizing moment, she held his gaze.
Her green eyes, always so calculating, so careful, were raw with anguish. They burned with something unfiltered, something unrestrained. The firelight caught the wet sheen of her tears, making them gleam as they trembled along her lashes before slipping, one by one, down the curve of her cheek.
"Why… why are you okay?" Her voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges, as if every word scraped against her throat. "Why aren't you suffering? Why are you so… so calm?"
Her breath hitched, uneven, as her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his coat, knuckles white with strain. "Tell me, why is it that I feel like everything is falling apart? My heart is shattered into pieces, and yet you—Leo—seem untouched by this agony."
The words vibrated in the air between them, thick with the weight of her pain. The candlelight trembled again, casting restless shadows across the velvet drapes, the dark mahogany of the furniture, the broken glass glistening on the rug where she had knocked over a goblet earlier.
Her grip on him was desperate, almost bruising. "Why is it that you feel nothing? Why am I the only one drowning in this pain?"
Leo remained silent, unmoving. His body, rigid beneath her hands, was a stark contrast to her unsteady frame. His face, unreadable, carried none of the devastation that twisted hers into something almost unrecognizable. But his eyes…
For a fleeting second, something flickered in them.
Not sorrow, not guilt, but something close. Something deep. Something restrained.
The silence stretched, heavy and stifling, interrupted only by the erratic rhythm of Rebecca's breathing and the faint whisper of the wind against the windowpanes. The room itself seemed to shrink, pressing in around them as the contrast between their states became undeniable—one drowning, one standing on the shore, watching.
And that only made it worse.
Rebecca's nails dug into the fabric of his coat, her breaths shallow, ragged. "Say something," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the flames. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you're hurting too."
But Leo's lips remained a thin, impassive line.
She let out a short, bitter laugh—shaky, breathless. "Of course not."
Leo's gaze didn't waver, but he felt the weight of her words pressing against him, demanding something—anything—from him.
And he didn't know how to answer.
Was he okay?
Did he even understand what he felt anymore?
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Lily. To the quiet moments he had stored away in the corners of his mind, where time hadn't stolen them from him yet. He had loved her. More than anything. More than he had ever been willing to say.
But unlike Rebecca, who had fought and clawed and burned everything in her wake to hold onto Noha, Leo had simply… let go.
Not because his love was any weaker.
But because holding on had felt crueler.
His hands clenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves tightening over his knuckles. He had convinced himself that loving Lily meant wanting her happiness, even if it wasn't with him. That to step back was the right thing—the honorable thing.
But watching Rebecca now, her grief carved into every inch of her being, he wondered—had he done the right thing? Or had he simply been a coward?
He looked at her—this woman who had set fire to herself for a love that would never be hers.
And in that moment, he realized—he had lost just as much as she had.
He had just chosen a quieter way to bleed.
The firelight danced between them, throwing their reflections onto the glass of the wine bottle still clutched in her other hand. One wild, unraveling. The other silent, still. Two ghosts of love unreturned.
Leo finally spoke, his voice low, almost distant.
"I don't know if I'm okay, Rebecca."
His words fell into the space between them, settling like dust on the air, fragile yet heavy.
"And I don't know if I ever will be."
Rebecca's grip on Leo's collar wavered. Her breath, warm and laced with the sharp tang of wine, ghosted over his skin as her strength finally gave out. The moment stretched—her fingers loosening, her weight shifting, her body tilting forward like a marionette with its strings cut.
Then, she collapsed.
Leo caught her without thought, his arms moving with a fluid certainty as her body sagged against him. She was light—too light for someone who carried so much agony. The scent of alcohol clung to her like a second skin, mingling with the faint traces of her perfume. It was rich, heady, a stark contrast to the icy stillness of the room.
Her face was turned toward his chest, her breath shallow, lashes trembling against flushed cheeks. If not for the quiet, unsteady rhythm of her breathing, she might have looked like a tragic doll—beautiful, broken, utterly lifeless.
Leo's jaw tightened.
The shattered remains of the wine bottle glistened on the floor behind her, jagged shards catching the dim candlelight like fractured stars. The room itself was in disarray—curtains slightly askew, the untouched bed a stark reminder of her isolation. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, rattling the panes as if mocking her futile rage.
He should have let her fall.
And yet, here he was, lowering her onto the bed with a care that neither of them would acknowledge. The silk sheets rustled as he adjusted her, his fingers briefly brushing against the cool skin of her wrist. She murmured something—a breath of a word too slurred, too broken to understand.
Leo pulled away.
He straightened, casting one last glance at the woman who, just moments ago, had burned with uncontained grief. Now, she was still. Silent.
The fire in her had not gone out—it had simply consumed all the air around it, leaving behind nothing but embers and exhaustion.
A single candle flickered on the nightstand, its flame swaying with the movement of his departure.
Leo did not sigh. Did not hesitate.
He turned and walked away, each step measured, precise, deliberate.
The room grew colder in his absence, the emptiness thick with things left unsaid.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And he did not look back.
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