Amara didn't sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes, the image replayed—Adrian at the gallery, his arm brushed by another woman, his lips curved in a smile that wasn't meant for her.
It shouldn't have mattered. They weren't together. He had made it painfully clear he was pulling away. But the sight cut deeper than she expected, a silent wound she couldn't bandage.
Was I just a passing distraction?Did he run because he already had someone else?
She shook the thoughts away, but the ache refused to leave.
Adrian, on the other hand, spent the night staring at the ceiling, guilt knotting in his chest.
The woman at the gallery wasn't a lover. She was Cassandra. A name he hadn't spoken aloud in months.
Cassandra had once been part of his life in ways Amara could never imagine. They had grown up together, two reckless souls who thought the world would bend to their will. But Cassandra had been reckless in ways that left scars. She'd made choices—illegal, dangerous—that had nearly pulled Adrian under with her.
He had clawed his way out. She hadn't. And now she was back, leaning on him with a smile that was all edges and secrets.
"You owe me," she had whispered at the gallery, her hand on his arm. "Don't forget that."
That was why he hadn't chased Amara across the room. Not because he didn't want to. But because Cassandra's reappearance meant trouble, the kind that could swallow Amara whole if she got too close.
And Adrian—despite everything his heart screamed—was determined to protect her from that.
Two days later, Amara finally confronted him. She found him outside the café where they'd once shared laughter so easily. His expression was guarded, but his eyes softened the moment they landed on her.
"Amara—"
"Who was she?" she asked, cutting him off.
His silence was too long.
"Just someone from my past," he said finally.
"Just someone?" Her voice cracked. "Because you looked at her like—" She stopped herself, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Adrian stepped closer, lowering his voice. "She isn't what you think."
"Then tell me what she is."
His jaw tightened. He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But the truth was messy, tangled with shadows he'd worked so hard to escape. And if she knew—if she got even a glimpse—she might walk away forever.
"I can't," he said at last, voice rough. "Not yet."
Amara's chest ached with the weight of his words. She wanted to believe him. But the distance he was building between them was becoming unbearable.
"Then maybe I should stop waiting," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Her words struck him like a blade. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for her, but he forced himself still.
"Amara—" His voice was almost a plea. But again, he stopped himself. He always stopped.
She turned before he could finish, walking away with tears burning her eyes.
And Adrian stood there, torn in two—between the woman he wanted with every fiber of his being and the ghost from his past who threatened to destroy it all.