Aria's POV
She hadn't meant to stay.
After dropping the letter at Damien's feet and hearing the quiet, unfinished question in his voice, Aria had every intention of turning around and walking out of the Thornewell Estate for the last time. But somehow, her legs didn't move. The storm inside her had quieted—not because it was over, but because it was waiting. Hovering. Watching what she would do next.
Now, she sat in silence on the far side of the fireplace, knees pulled up on the velvet settee, staring into the flames like they might tell her what came after the kind of truth that broke your breath in half.
Damien didn't speak. He sat across from her, forearms on his knees, jaw clenched like he was holding back every instinct to fill the air between them with apologies.
That's what had always scared her most about him—not the charm, not the danger—but the quiet.
He knew how to wait.
Finally, Aria spoke.
"Do you think love is supposed to save us?"
Damien looked up. The firelight carved gold into his cheekbones, softened the storm in his eyes. "I don't know," he said. "I think maybe it's just supposed to see us. And not walk away."
She stared at him. "You walked away."
"I did." His voice was steady. Bare. "And I've regretted every step since."
Silence again. This time, it didn't press so hard against her ribs.
She curled her fingers into her palm. "The letter… my father wasn't angry. But he was ashamed."
"He shouldn't have been," Damien said.
"You don't get to say that."
He nodded, taking the weight of her words without flinching. "You're right."
Aria exhaled, slow and tired. "He gave up our legacy so we could survive. And I didn't even know until last week. How does a father carry that kind of silence his whole life?"
Damien's gaze dropped to the flames. "I don't know. But maybe the same way I carried yours."
Her stomach tightened.
There it was again—the thing between them. Not just longing. Not just regret.
Recognition.
She stood abruptly, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly too hot in her own skin. She crossed the room to the window, pushed it open, let the cold night air hit her lungs.
"I hated you," she said quietly.
He didn't respond.
"I hated you for what you did to Juliette. For what you didn't say. But the worst part?" Her voice cracked. "The worst part is I hated myself for still wanting to know why."
Damien stood slowly. Didn't move toward her. "And now that you do?"
Aria turned her head just enough to see his reflection in the glass. "I don't feel better. I feel… heavy. Like I've inherited something I never asked for."
She turned fully then. "Your legacy broke mine, Damien. And I don't know how to want you without resenting everything you come from."
His face softened—not with sadness, but with something quieter. Something like understanding.
"I don't want you to forgive the Thornewells," he said. "I don't even want you to forgive me."
She frowned. "Then what do you want?"
"I want to be the one who stays this time."
She blinked.
That was the problem. That's always been the problem.
Staying wasn't enough.
---
Later — Guest Room
She didn't remember falling asleep. Just the quiet exhaustion after the fire burned low, the door clicking softly behind her, and the scent of something warm—cedarwood and regret—filling her chest.
Now, she woke up in the guest room. Not her suite. Not her city. A room dressed in too much softness and silence. She sat up slowly, blinking into the filtered light bleeding through the gauzy curtains.
A tray rested on the table near the window. Coffee. Toast. A glass of orange juice.
Elise would've added fresh berries. Damien had gone for plain.
Of course he had.
Aria padded to the tray and poured herself coffee, the mug heavy in her hands. She didn't add cream. She needed to taste the bitterness.
She turned and found him in the doorway, barefoot, holding a single file folder.
"I thought you might want this."
She didn't take it right away.
"What is it?"
"The original deed transfer," he said. "From your father to mine. It's not in the archive. It was in the private vault. I... thought it belonged to you now."
She walked over and took it. It felt smaller than it should have.
"Why give it to me?"
"Because I want to start giving things, Aria," he said. "Not just taking them."
She looked at him, really looked at him.
For the first time, she didn't see the man who disappeared. Or the one who kissed her like salvation. She saw the boy on the stairs five years ago, tie crooked, soul unraveling, asking her questions he didn't know how to answer.
He hadn't changed.
But maybe he'd started trying.
She set the folder down carefully. "Did you love her?" she asked.
Damien blinked. "Juliette?"
Aria nodded.
He didn't lie.
"No. Not the way I should've. I loved the idea of fixing something. Making my family less… ugly. But I didn't love her like I…" He stopped himself.
"Like you loved me," she said for him.
Silence stretched.
"I shouldn't have let it get that far," he said. "I should've stopped looking at you the way I did."
Aria held his gaze. "You didn't."
"No."
And somehow, that was the most honest thing he'd ever said.
---
Afternoon — Thornewell Garden
They sat on the stone bench beneath the magnolia tree. The same one where everything always seemed to come back to.
This time, there was no anger between them. No fire. Just tired truth.
"I want to go back to the archive," Aria said.
Damien nodded. "You can. I'll call Holden."
"I want to see what else my father gave up."
"And if it changes how you see me?"
She looked over at him. "Then we'll start over from that place."
His mouth twisted in a sad smile. "Starting over with you feels like holding my breath."
"Then maybe," she said, "you need to learn how to breathe around me."
He nodded, looking away, voice rough. "I'm trying."
And for once, she believed him.
---
Evening — Aria's Apartment
The city felt different now.
Colder.
Real.
Alive.
She stepped inside and paused by the doorway. The letter, the pendant, the folder—they were in her bag. But the weight wasn't just on her shoulder anymore. It was inside her. Part of her.
She didn't want to bury it.
She wanted to live with it.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. Damien.
> DAMIEN: "I won't call again tonight. Just wanted you to know I'm still here. Whatever you need."
She didn't respond.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because she needed to know if he'd still be there when she did.
She walked to the balcony and looked out over the city.
Not running.
Not hiding.
Just breathing.