Chapter 80

A Letter She Never Sent

On the third night of their honeymoon, after the baby had fallen asleep beside a folded shawl smelling of lavender, Rhea sat by the window with a small notebook in her hand. Lex was asleep on the couch, a book resting on his chest, one hand instinctively outstretched toward where their daughter lay.

Rhea opened the notebook and began writing.

> Dear Arya,

I don't think I ever forgave you.

You changed your name, you vanished, and you gave me your silence in return.

But maybe that's what I needed.

Because now…

I am Rhea.

I have a daughter whose name I haven't even chosen yet because no word feels worthy of her.

I have a husband who looks at me like I'm something rare, not something broken.

I still dream. Not of mirrors or shadows.

But of light on his face, her heartbeat against mine, and mornings with no fear.

I won't send this letter.

Because it's not for Arya anymore.

It's for the girl I used to be.

And she can finally rest.

— R

She tore the page out, folded it carefully, and tucked it into her jewelry box beside her wedding ring's velvet case.

Outside, the night stretched on—quiet, gentle, full of promise.

Tomorrow, they'd return to London. To real life. To unanswered questions, possible dangers, and the secrets that still waited in dark corners.

But for tonight, they had peace.