Maven and Adrianna were born on opposite sides of a century-old feud-two scions of rival dynasties steeped in pride, power, and revenge. He's fire. She's ice. Their worlds were never meant to merge, yet fate orchestrates their collision with unrelen...
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The air outside is still warm from the day, but it feels colder now. Or maybe I do.
I don't rush to my car. Just stand under the porte-cochère, rain misting down again—gentler now, almost like the sky's exhausted from earlier. Same as me.
The conversation plays on loop in my head.
Camilla's smile. My father's eyes. That last line—"I'm proud of you."
It should've landed differently. It should've broken me open. But instead, it just echoed. Hollow. Delayed.
Because I didn't come for comfort. I didn't come to be told I turned out fine.
I came to show him that I remember. That I'm still bleeding from things he called normal.
I slide into the car and shut the door, the thunk of it like a seal. No more vulnerability. No more confessions.
The windows fog slowly. I don't start the engine.
Instead, I stare at the gate, its cold iron symmetry mocking the chaos inside me.
All my life, that house was a cathedral of silence. Beautiful. Controlled. Revered.
But no one prayed there.
And now I wonder if all the strength I've built—the sarcasm, the ambition, the independence—was just armor I forged in the fire he lit and then walked away from.
You disappeared anyway.
The words burn now that I'm alone. Because saying them felt like pulling a thread from a tapestry I was supposed to pretend was still whole.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. Breathe. Swallow the sting.
I don't cry.
Not for him.
Not anymore.
—————— Back to Serendra...
I let myself in, drop my keys into the bowl by the door. The place is dim, but warm. My own kind of quiet. Not the Sobreviñas brand. No jazz. No staged perfection.
Just me. And the hum of the fridge. And the steady drip of the bathroom tap I keep forgetting to fix.
I change into dry clothes. Pull on an oversized hoodie. No makeup. Hair tied up. I let myself feel uncurated.
In the mirror, I look like someone who just pulled a piece of herself loose and hasn't decided if she wants it back.
The apartment feels too quiet now. Too safe.
And I don't want safe.
I scroll through my contacts. My thumb hovers for a second. Then I tap Maven.
