Chapter 8 – Flashback: Heartbreak
The mansion had gone quiet for the evening. Contestants retreated to their rooms or clusters of gossiping friends, leaving the halls empty except for the hum of the air conditioning and the faint echo of distant laughter from somewhere down the corridor. I wandered aimlessly, letting my heels click against the polished marble, my thoughts a relentless storm.
Dante.
The moment his presence appeared in my peripheral vision earlier, the past had clawed its way back. Memories I'd tried desperately to bury had erupted, vivid and cruel, demanding attention I wasn't ready to give. And now, here I was, alone in the quiet, with nowhere to hide from the ghost of what we once were.
I stopped at a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the garden. Moonlight spilled across the manicured lawns, illuminating the path below where the camera drones glided silently. I pressed my palm against the cool glass, as if that connection could somehow anchor me back to the present—or maybe just delay the inevitable confrontation with the past.
And there it was—the memory I'd tried to erase.
It was three years ago.
We had been at that tiny coffee shop downtown, the one with mismatched chairs and terrible Wi-Fi, where we had spent so many afternoons planning, laughing, and imagining a future that felt as though it could withstand anything. But life had other plans.
I remembered the first crack—the call from my agent, the low whisper of opportunity I couldn't refuse. "Alexis, this could change everything. You have to go, even if it means... leaving him behind for a while." My heart had clenched, my mind screaming, but I nodded. I had always chosen career over comfort.
And then the calls became months. Messages went unanswered. I was swamped, I told myself, swamped with filming schedules, with rehearsals, with deadlines. But the truth—the painful, unavoidable truth—was that I was scared. Scared of opening my heart fully, scared of vulnerability, and terrified that love and ambition could not coexist without one suffocating the other.
Dante had waited. Patient, kind, unwavering. And I had... left. I didn't tell him I was leaving. I didn't explain. I didn't say goodbye. I had blocked his number, deleted his messages, erased him as if my absence would erase the depth of what we'd shared.
I had ghosted him.
And for years, that choice had haunted me.
The memory of that last night together haunted me most vividly. He had stood outside my apartment, rain soaking the collar of his coat, eyes burning with confusion and hurt. "Alexis," he'd said, voice low and trembling, "why? Why are you pushing me away?"
I had turned, looked down, unable to meet his gaze, tears blurring my vision. "I... I can't. I'm not ready. I... I can't give you the life you deserve. I can't be the person you need me to be."
He had reached for me, but I stepped back, breaking the fragile bridge between us. "I have to go," I whispered, almost to myself, and walked away.
The memory made my chest ache. It had been so selfish, so cruel. And yet, at the time, I had convinced myself it was necessary. My career demanded sacrifices, I told myself. My survival demanded it. But now... standing in the mansion, watching him laugh and interact with others, the guilt twisted in my stomach like a live thing.
I had not only hurt him; I had left a part of myself behind.
A faint noise pulled me from my reverie. The soft shuffle of feet approaching. My pulse quickened. Dante.
I spun around, heart hammering in my chest, but he merely paused at the doorway, casual, unreadable. "You look... thoughtful," he said softly, voice teasing but carrying an undertone I couldn't place.
I forced a laugh, turning back to the window. "Just... thinking," I said, though it sounded hollow even to my own ears.
"About me?" he asked, stepping closer, and my stomach knotted. The question wasn't accusatory; it wasn't demanding. It was... curious. Gentle. Dangerous.
I swallowed, trying to steady my racing heart. "Maybe," I admitted, surprising myself. "Maybe I'm thinking about... the past. Mistakes. Choices. All the things I wish I could undo."
He didn't respond immediately. He only watched, silent and patient, and I felt the weight of years compressed into a single moment. The unspoken words—the apologies, the anger, the longing—hung in the air, thick and heavy.
"I..." he began, and then stopped. A deep breath, a measured pause. "I don't understand why you disappeared. It hurt, Alexis. You hurt me. And yet... seeing you here, now, I..." His voice faltered, but his eyes didn't waver. They were steady, searching, revealing a vulnerability he usually masked with charm and ease.
I closed my eyes, guilt and longing coiling together. "I know," I whispered. "I'm... sorry. I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was protecting myself. But all I did was... leave."
The raw honesty of my own words shocked me. It felt like stepping off a cliff into freezing water—terrifying, necessary, inevitable.
He finally stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, the familiar scent that had once been intoxicating, grounding, safe. "You left," he said softly, "but maybe... maybe some things aren't gone. Some things... linger."
I swallowed hard, the memories crashing back—the way he had smiled when I failed a scene, the way he had held me when my confidence shattered, the way he had loved me without question, without hesitation. And I realized, with a jolt, that yes, some things lingered. I still felt them. Deeply, irreversibly, uncontrollably.
"I didn't... I didn't know if I could love and live the way you deserved," I admitted, voice breaking. "I thought... leaving was the only way."
He let out a humorless laugh, the kind that cut right to the bone. "You always think you're in control, don't you?"
"I thought I was," I whispered.
He shook his head, but his gaze softened. "Control... doesn't mean anything when it comes to us. When it comes to feelings."
I wanted to protest, to argue, to shield myself behind sarcasm or wit. But there was no armor left. Not with him. Not after all these years. My walls had crumbled the moment I saw him in that lounge, confident, magnetic, impossible.
"Alexis," he murmured, a hint of warmth threading through the quiet, "maybe... maybe this is our chance. Our chance to... fix what we broke."
The weight of possibility hung in the air, intoxicating and terrifying. Could I risk it? Could I trust him again after everything I had done? Could I trust myself?
I looked at him, really looked, and saw the same man I had once loved fiercely, the same man who had hurt when I had left, the same man who now stood with patience, curiosity, and... forgiveness lingering just beneath the surface.
For the first time in years, I felt my chest loosen. The knot of guilt, fear, and longing twisted into something new: hope. Tentative. Fragile. And entirely dangerous.
"I..." I began, words failing me, then simply shook my head. "I don't know if I can do this... if I can do us."
He stepped closer, careful, measured, and brushed a stray strand of hair from my face. "We'll figure it out," he whispered. "Slowly. One step at a time. But first... just see me. Not the past. Not the hurt. Just... me."
I nodded, heart hammering in my chest, breath shallow. The past had brought me here, to this moment, standing in the moonlit hallway, with him, and the fragile possibility of... something more.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, I allowed myself to imagine it. To imagine that some things—love, trust, chemistry—could survive even the cruelest decisions, even the sharpest heartbreak.
The memory faded, but the sensation lingered. The ache of regret. The thrill of hope. The undeniable pull of him, of us, waiting to be reclaimed.
And just like that, the mansion didn't feel empty anymore.
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