Chapter 15: The Breaking Point

The night was heavy, thunder rumbling in the distance as rain lashed against the windows of Azalea's penthouse. She stood motionless, arms crossed tightly against her chest, staring out at the glowing Paris skyline. The storm outside mirrored the one inside her mind. The truth had come crashing down on her—Ambrose wasn't who he claimed to be.

A knock on the door broke her reverie. She turned sharply, her heart racing, knowing exactly who it was. "Come in," she called, her voice cold.

The door creaked open, and Ambrose stepped inside, shaking rain off his coat. He looked at her with a faint smile, but it faltered when he saw her expression.

"You look like you're ready to interrogate someone," Ambrose said lightly, his tone attempting to diffuse the tension.

Azalea didn't reply. She motioned to the chair by the fireplace. "Sit," she commanded, her voice sharp.

Ambrose hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Azalea—"

"Sit."

Realizing there was no room for negotiation, he complied, lowering himself into the chair. "What's this about?"

Azalea turned to face him fully, her arms still crossed. "You tell me, Ambrose. What's the lie of the night? Or do you need me to tell you what I've discovered?"

Ambrose's eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression remained calm. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Don't play dumb with me," she snapped, her voice rising. "I know. About your other life. About the things you've done. About who you are."

A flicker of unease crossed Ambrose's face, but he quickly masked it. "Who told you this?"

Azalea let out a bitter laugh. "Does it matter? Let's just say your secrets aren't as well-kept as you think."

"Azalea—"

"No." She cut him off, taking a step closer. "You've been lying to me this whole time. All those late nights, the vague answers, the evasions—it all makes sense now. You're just like me, aren't you?"

Ambrose stiffened. "Azalea, I—"

"Save it," she said, holding up a hand. "I don't want your excuses. I want the truth."

For a long moment, Ambrose said nothing. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. When he finally looked up, his eyes were filled with something she couldn't quite place—guilt? Regret?

"I didn't mean to lie to you," he said quietly. "At first, I thought it didn't matter. We were just business partners, and colleagues. But then…" He trailed off, his voice thick with emotion.

"Then what?" Azalea demanded.

"Then I fell for you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "And by the time I realized how much you meant to me, it was too late. I couldn't tell you. I didn't want to lose you."

Azalea's breath caught in her throat. She wanted to be angry, to lash out, but the raw honesty in his words made it impossible. "You should've told me," she said, her voice trembling. "From the beginning."

"I know," he said, standing and taking a step toward her. "And I'm sorry. I was afraid, Azalea. Afraid of what you'd think, afraid of how you'd look at me. But I swear everything I feel for you is real."

She turned away, her back to him as she tried to process his words. The storm outside raged on, the sound of rain hammering against the windows filling the silence between them.

"I don't know if I can trust you," she said finally, her voice barely audible.

Ambrose moved closer, his voice gentle. "Then don't trust me right now. Trust what we've built. Trust the way I look at you, the way I feel when I'm with you."

Azalea shook her head, her emotions a tangled mess. "You don't understand, Ambrose. I've been lied to before. I've been betrayed. I can't go through that again."

"I'm not Osvaldo," he said firmly, his voice cutting through her doubt. "I'm not him, Azalea. And I'll spend the rest of my life proving that to you if I have to."

She turned to face him, her eyes searching his for any sign of deceit. But all she saw was sincerity. For the first time in years, she felt something shift—a crack in the walls she had built around her heart.

"Why did you have to be so complicated?" she muttered, her voice softening.

Ambrose smiled faintly. "I could ask you the same thing."

For a moment, they stood there, the tension between them palpable. Then, almost without thinking, Ambrose reached out and cupped her face in his hands. "Azalea," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "You are the best thing that's ever happened to me. I know I've made mistakes, but I can't lose you."

Her breath hitched as he leaned in, their faces inches apart. "You make it so hard to stay angry," she whispered.

"Good," he murmured before capturing her lips in a kiss.

The kiss was everything—tender, desperate, filled with all the words they couldn't say. Azalea felt herself melting into him, her hands gripping his shoulders as she let herself feel for the first time in years.

When they finally pulled apart, both were breathless.

"This doesn't mean I've forgiven you," Azalea said, her voice shaky.

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Ambrose replied with a small smile.

She stepped back, her hand still in his. "You have a lot to prove, Ambrose. And I'm not making it easy for you."

"I wouldn't want it any other way," he said.

As the storm raged outside, the two stood together, their connection stronger than ever. But the road ahead was uncertain, and the challenges they faced were far from over. For now, they had found a fragile truce, and that was enough.