Kael locked the screen and set the phone aside. Then he sank into his chair. Reports lay scattered across the desk — graphs, numbers, contracts — fragments of a world built on order and precision.
It all felt hollow.
None of it mattered.
His eyes were bloodshot, his tie loosened, his hands resting uselessly over a document he hadn't read in hours. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the echo of her voice in his mind.
Then, without warning, the door opened.
Perfume drifted in — too sweet, too deliberate. It cut through the sterile air like an unwelcome guest.
Clariss.
She closed the door behind her, heels clicking against marble. "Kael," she said carefully, softer than usual. "You look exhausted."
He didn't answer; he kept his gaze on the papers before him, a quiet wall between them.
Clariss hesitated, then perched on the edge of his desk as she often did. But when Kael finally lifted his head, the look she met stopped her breathless confidence cold.
Cold. Detached. Unforgiving.
"I heard," she began, trying for casual, "that you know about the photo."
Kael's fingers stilled. A thin line of disdain crossed his face. "So it's true," he said, low. "You lied."
Clariss flinched but nodded. "Yes. I did."
She tried to speak then — to explain, to smooth, to thaw the frost between them — but Kael cut her off with a single, dangerous sentence. He didn't shout; he merely leaned forward, voice quiet and razor-sharp.
"Save the explanations. Don't do anything like that again."
Her mouth opened, a protest forming, but he continued before she could finish. "You wanted results. You got them. But if you try to pull anyone into lies that destroy her — there will be consequences. For you."
The room contracted around Clariss. For a breath she looked small and startled, then composed herself with practiced ease. "I understand," she said, voice steady.
Outwardly she agreed, inclining her head as if chastened. Her smile — polite and compliant — hid the rest. Beneath that placid mask, fury coiled like a cat ready to spring. The brief rebuke only lit a darker fuse.
When she left his office her heels sounded like small hammers on the marble, each step a promise. She moved out into the corridor with a calm face, but inside her thoughts raced. He'd warned her — fine. He'd made his point — fine. But it only sharpened her resolve.
If you won't let me touch her directly, she thought, I'll tear her apart from the shadows. Quietly. Cleanly. Irrevocably.
Her exit was measured; her plans were not.
After Clariss went out, he started by calling Amara's parents.
It took three tries before Mr. Castellanos finally picked up.
"Good evening, sir. It's Kael," he said, trying to sound composed.
There was a pause. "Kael." The older man's tone was polite—but distant. "What can I do for you?"
"I just wanted to ask if Amara is with you. She hasn't been coming to work, and I was worried—"
"She's not here," Mr. Castellanos interrupted smoothly.
Kael frowned. "Are you sure? I thought maybe she—"
"I'm sure," the man said firmly. "If that's all, Kael, we're a bit busy right now. Please excuse us."
Before Kael could say another word, the line went dead.
He stared at his phone, disbelief and frustration burning in his chest.
"They lied," he muttered. "Why would they lie?"
He knew it the moment he heard the man's voice. There had been hesitation—too quick, too measured. And Mr. Castellanos had always been honest, even blunt, before.
So why now?
Because they knew something.
Because she told them.
Kael sank into his car seat, his head spinning. The thought that Amara might have confided in her parents about what happened—the humiliation, the rejection—made his stomach twist with guilt.
He hit the steering wheel hard. "Damn it!"
The echo filled the car, but it did nothing to drown the guilt that was now clawing at him.
That night, the city lights glittered beneath him — an illusion of life, bright and hollow.
He had no appetite for food. No patience for work.
Only the silence remained — thick and accusing.
He unlocked his phone again, scrolling through his call history.
Her name filled the screen in a pitiful repetition. Amara C. Amara C. Amara C.
He called again.
Voicemail.
He tried texting this time.
Kael: Where are you?
Kael: We need to talk.
Kael: I can explain.
None of the messages showed "delivered."
He leaned back in his seat, running a hand over his face.
"Damn it," he whispered. "Why won't you just answer me?"
His reflection in the window car stared back at him — pale, hollow-eyed, unrecognizable. The man who'd once controlled everything now looked like he'd lost his centre of gravity.
For the first time, Kael felt the slow, unfamiliar taste of fear. Not the sharp kind that came with danger — but the deep, gnawing kind that came with loss.
He remembered the way Amara used to wait for him after work — her voice soft, her hands warm when he was too tired to speak.
She'd loved him through every storm, every mood, back when love was quiet and uncomplicated, before the word engagement ever entered the room.
And he had destroyed that — with pride, with arrogance, with the belief that love could survive anything simply because he wanted it to.
He thought she'd always come back.
He thought she needed him more than he needed her.
He was wrong.
Within the villa's quiet walls, Kael's world felt smaller. Every sound — the wind, the rain, even the quiet hum of the fridge — mocked the silence that had taken her place.
He sat on the couch, loosening his tie, staring at his phone again.
He called once more. The line rang, then cut.
He laughed softly — a sound without joy.
"She'll come back," he whispered. "She always does."
But this time, the words didn't sound like faith.
They sounded like denial.
He leaned back, letting his eyes close. Rain began again — faint, rhythmic, relentless.
Outside, the world blurred through the glass, a wash of grey and silver.
In the dark, he remembered her voice — gentle, patient, full of life. The way she used to say his name like it meant something.
He could almost hear it again.
Almost.
Then it was gone.
And for the first time in his life, Kael felt the full, crushing silence of being irreversibly alone.
Still, he clung to the last illusion his pride would allow him —
that she loved him too much to disappear.
That this was temporary.
That somehow, when the rain stopped, she'd walk back through that door.