Her breath stutters. Her head jerks back a fraction, eyes searching my face like she’s waiting for the punchline.
“What?” she whispers.
I shake my head sharply. “It’s over. There is no wedding.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
“You’re lying,” she says finally, but there’s no heat in it, just disbelief. “You don’t get to rewrite reality because it suits you now.”
“I’m not rewriting anything,” I say, my voice cracking open. “I’m telling you the truth. The wedding isn’t happening.” I swallow hard. “And I don’t regret that night. I regret everything that led to it. Every second I let fear make my choices. Everymoment I let you walk away thinking I didn’t want you.” My chest tightens. “I regret being a coward.”
Her jaw wavers, not softening, not forgiving, but cracking.
“And the contract?” she asks quietly. Too quietly.
“That was never what I wanted, you know that,” I rasp, stepping closer. “It was Mafia politics. Nothing more, and now it’s not even that.”
I lift my hand slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.
“The only ring I’ve ever wanted to wear is this one.”
The skull ring catches the faint light as I tilt my hand, metal worn from years of touch.
Her ring. Her mark. The only truth I’ve carried.
“Where it belongs,” I murmur.
My hand hovers between us, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off my skin. Slowly I reach out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Her breath stutters—small, sharp, and involuntary—as she catches the touch, and for a heartbeat, the chaos between us stills.
“Lily,” I say softly, “I didn’t come here expecting forgiveness. I came here knowing you might slam the door in my face. Scream at me. Kick me out.”
I meet her eyes and hold them. I need her to see I mean every word I’m saying.
“I’d take all of it,” I add quietly. “Gladly.”
Her chin trembles once before she steels it. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I know. But staying away was costing me you.”
Her eyes flicker—fear, fury, longing, exhaustion—tangled into something that feels like an inevitable collision.
“And I’m not walking away,” I vow, my voice dropping to something dangerous. “Not when you still look at me like this. Not when I can feel how much you wish things were different.”
Her breath hitches. Her fingers twitch.
She hates that I’m right.
I hate thatI’mright.
“But you don’t get to pretend this doesn’t matter,” I continue, stepping close enough that my chest almost brushes hers. “Call me cruel. Call me the villain in your story. Tell me you never want to see me again.”
Her throat bobs.
“But don’t lie to me about one thing,” I whisper, leaning in, letting my breath ghost her skin.
“Don’t you dare pretend this”—my hand lands gently on the wall beside her head, caging without touching—“doesn’t still burn you alive.”
Her eyes meet mine again and for a split heartbeat, her walls drop, the room tilts, and the air turns thick enough to drown in. My chest hammers like it’s trying to break free. My pulse roars like thunder in my ears.
