Caveen stood in the shadows, unmoving, breath shallow as he stared through the slightly open curtain of her apartment.
There she was.
Lysandra.
Curled on the couch like a forgotten porcelain doll, her face was half-hidden in her knees, trembling shoulders betraying the silent sobs that escaped her. She wept soundlessly, as if even her tears were tired.
Caveen's heart twisted, a raw ache he hadn't been able to silence since the night he unmarked her. That night he told himself it was for her peace.
But seeing her now—shattered and alone—he realized peace had never truly come to either of them.
Unable to resist, he stepped into the light.
"Lysandra," he said softly.
She snapped up, her tear-streaked eyes widening as she saw him. Her aura had been dulled—she didn't even sense him until now.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, stunned. "Tomorrow is your wedding."
Caveen said nothing at first. Instead, he walked toward her, knelt before her, and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. He pressed a kiss to her forehead—a tender, lingering goodbye.
"I came to say it… officially," he murmured, his voice breaking, "goodbye."
He stood to leave.
But her hand caught his.
"Caveen…" Her voice was almost a plea. "Can I… have you? One last time?"
A beat of silence.
He closed his eyes, jaw clenched as her words burrowed into the hollow of his chest. She wasn't demanding—she was hoping, aching, begging in the only way she knew how.
Caveen turned, took her hand, and pulled her to him.
Their lips met—gently, painfully tender—like they were holding onto something fragile that would break if they let go. And then it deepened, their mouths crashing together with the force of every memory, every regret, every love they ever shared.
They stripped away not just clothing, but guilt, silence, and pride.
The night burned.
Bodies entwined, breaths ragged, fingers trembling as they memorized each other's skin.
He kissed her with a reverence that shattered her heart.
She clung to him like a lifeline, whispering his name like a prayer.
They made love with desperation, as if trying to rewrite fate with every touch. It was not lust—it was longing, farewell made flesh.
And when it was over, when their bodies collapsed in exhaustion, Lysandra stayed awake, fingers ghosting across his chest.
Because she knew.
Once she closed her eyes… he would be gone.
But her body gave in.
Sleep claimed her like a cruel thief.
Caveen lay beside her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, memorizing her face in the soft morning light.
He leaned down, kissed her shoulder… her temple… her lips.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "In another life… I'd have chosen you first."
He dressed quietly, walked to the door—and didn't look back.
Because if he did…
He'd never leave.
Today was his wedding day.
And he was walking down the aisle with a hollow heart.
The wedding march echoed across the lavish cathedral. Crimson roses adorned every arch, their fragrance too sweet—sickening, almost.
Caveen stood at the altar in his tailored black suit, the gold crest of the Landon family shining on his chest. His jaw was tight, his gaze forward, but his eyes… they were nowhere near the present.
The crowd whispered about how dashing he looked, how lucky Madeline was. Yet no one noticed the way his fists clenched behind his back… or how the veins in his temple pulsed with restraint.
Because while the world saw a man about to marry…
Inside, he felt like a man being buried.
"Smile," Elias whispered beside him, nudging his arm lightly.
Caveen didn't.
His eyes flickered to the cathedral doors as they opened wide.
Madeline appeared—radiant in white lace, her veil trailing like a dream. Her steps were graceful. Composed. She had waited years for this moment.
And yet, even as she walked toward him, Caveen saw only one thing—the ghost of a woman with tear-stained cheeks and trembling hands, whispering, "Can I have you… one last time?"
Lysandra.
The name struck like lightning through his chest.
He could still feel her fingers on his skin. Her lips on his neck. The way she clung to him like he was her last breath.
He had unmarked her.
He had left her.
But he didn't leave whole.
He left pieces of himself in that apartment—shards of his soul wrapped in the sheets they tangled in. He swore not to return, but even now, standing before the priest, every beat of his heart whispered her name.
The ceremony began.
Madeline reached his side, her eyes hopeful, shining.
"Do you, Caveen Landon, take Madeline Vilmire to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Silence.
Seconds passed like hours.
Caveen's jaw twitched. He looked into Madeline's eyes and forced a breath.
"I do," he said quietly.
But he didn't feel it.
The kiss came, but it lacked fire. The applause followed, hollow and distant.
Somewhere, a part of him had died.
---
Later that night, Caveen stood alone on the hotel balcony, overlooking the city lights. Champagne flutes clinked behind him. Madeline was smiling with guests, glowing with pride.
But Caveen… Caveen felt cold.
He lit a cigarette, a habit he hadn't touched in years.
With every inhale, he tried to burn the memory of Lysandra from his lungs.
But she was there—burning brighter than ever.
And as he exhaled, he murmured to himself:
> "I said goodbye to her last night…
But I never stopped loving her."