Chapter Five — The First Lie

Cherry

I didn't mean to snoop.

But curiosity is a dangerous drug when you're falling for someone who keeps a pistol in his nightstand and a graveyard in his eyes.

It was supposed to be just another drawer. Just another night.

But I found the photo.

Folded, worn around the edges. The kind of worn that comes from being touched too often by someone who regrets everything.

She had soft features, long blonde hair, and eyes like a summer lake—so different from mine. She looked safe.

Sweet.

Loved.

I didn't hear him come in.

"Put it back," Rafael's voice cut through the room like a blade.

I flinched, but I didn't move.

"Who was she?"

He didn't answer for a long time. Then he walked past me, took the photo, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Her name was Sofia."

His voice wasn't cold like usual. It was low. Fractured.

"She was my first love. The only person who ever saw me before I became what I am now."

I sat beside him, my heartbeat uneven.

"What happened to her?"

He exhaled slowly, as if breathing out the memory still hurt.

"We were ambushed. I was the target. She… pushed me down."

He paused. His voice broke.

"She took the bullet. She died in my arms, whispering my name, while I screamed into her blood."

Silence wrapped around us like a noose.

"I buried her under an olive tree. Swore I'd never love again. Swore no woman would ever get that close again."

Then his gaze turned to me.

Dark. Haunted. Bare.

"Until you."

I looked away.

Because what do you say to a man whose heart was broken by death—and is breaking yours with every quiet confession?

"Why didn't you tell me?" I whispered.

"Because I knew the moment you walked into my office… you'd ruin me, Cherry. And I wanted to pretend I could survive you."

My throat burned. I should've walked out. I should've let the past be his prison.

But I didn't.

Instead, I reached out and touched the photo.

"She died saving you," I said softly. "That's not something to hate yourself for."

His hands were trembling.

"I don't hate myself because she died. I hate myself… because now I'm starting to forget her voice. And I'm terrified that I'm starting to love someone else more."

My heart cracked open.

I should've said, "Don't."

But I didn't.

Because part of me was already in love with him too.

And I knew—deep down—that I would never survive it either.