The house was too quiet when I stepped inside. I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath until I crossed the threshold and exhaled in one long, shaking release.
The coat slipped from my fingers onto the bench by the door. I didn't bother to hang it. I didn't bother with anything.
I'd gone to my parents looking for answers. What I got was confirmation — not with words, but with silence. With the way my mother's hands shook as she poured tea. With the way my father looked at me like he'd failed me. I could see it in their eyes: they knew. They knew Dominic had already closed the bookstore before I ever said yes to him.
And they hadn't told me.
They'd protected me with silence. Or maybe protected themselves.
My heels echoed softly against the polished floors as I walked deeper into the house. Every room looked untouched, pristine, as if nothing here ever cracked or broke.
I, on the other hand, was splintering.
Dominic appeared at the end of the hall, like he'd been waiting. "You're back."
I didn't answer. I kept walking.
He followed. "How did it go?"
"Fine," I muttered. "I don't want to talk about it."
His footsteps grew closer behind me. "You've been off all week. Then you disappear to your parents' house without saying anything, and now you come back acting like a ghost—"
I stopped walking.
He didn't.
"You can't expect me to ignore it," he continued, voice low but heated. "Something's wrong. Just tell me."
"I said I'm fine," I replied tightly, refusing to turn around.
"No, you're not." His voice rose, sharp. "You barely look at me. You flinch when I touch you."
I felt it — the pull in my chest, the tear in my throat. But I stayed still.
He stepped in front of me, cutting me off. "Lila. Talk to me."
My eyes met his, and it hurt. Because he didn't know. He didn't know I'd seen the truth in a manila folder buried in his desk drawer. He didn't know I'd walked into my childhood home and realized everything had been taken from me.
And worst of all — he didn't know I couldn't even say it out loud.
So I said nothing.
"Goddammit," he snapped, backing up a step. "Don't do this. Don't shut down."
"I'm not," I said, but my voice was barely a whisper.
"You are," he said, louder. "You want to punish me for something and you won't even tell me what it is!"
I flinched at his words, at his tone, and that only made him angrier
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "I'm trying, Lila. I've tried since day one to give you space, to make this work—"
"Did you try when you signed the paperwork that shut down my parents' bookstore?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, quiet, venom-laced.
His head jerked up. "What?"
I froze.
He stared at me like I'd just confessed to something impossible.
"You knew," he said slowly. "You went through my—"
I looked away. "Don't."
"No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to pretend you're the victim when you went behind my back."
I snapped. "I wouldn't have had to if you hadn't lied to my face."
"I didn't lie."
"You let me believe you were helping them!"
Silence.
Then, voice low and dangerous, he said, "What do you want me to say, Lila? That I regret it? That I'm the villain? Fine. I am."
I stared at him, heart pounding. His chest was rising and falling fast. He looked furious… and broken.
I hated how much it still affected me.
He stepped toward me again, his voice tight. "Just tell me what you want from me."
"I want you to leave me alone," I said flatly. "Tonight. Please."
He blinked, and for the first time, stepped back.
I didn't wait for him to respond. I turned and walked toward the stairs, my body moving on autopilot while everything inside me screamed.
Only when I closed the bedroom door behind me did I let myself crumble — sliding down to the floor, arms wrapped around my knees, shaking with everything I hadn't said.