Part IV: The Echo of Ashes Chapter 45 A Man Alone

The door shut behind him with the weight of something final.

Aldrin stood in the center of his home, a fortress of steel and stone and silence. No staff. No guests. No music. Just him.

He didn't bother turning on the lights. The moon bled through tall windows, casting jagged reflections across polished floors. He shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall onto the arm of a chair without care.

"How?"

His voice cracked low in the stillness — not angry. Not afraid. Just raw.

He ran a hand down his face and moved toward the couch like gravity had its own plans for him. The cushions gave beneath his weight, but his mind remained taut, replaying her entrance, her touch, the shadow of her smile.

Mara.

He had buried her. Not with shovels and stone — but with time, with distance, with the thousand quiet choices that had led him to this new life. And yet there she was, wrapped in white like a ghost bride, stepping back into the world like nothing had changed.

His fingers dug into his temple. Words he could've said danced on his tongue now, bitter with their lateness.

"Why didn't I look at Iris?" he muttered. "Why didn't I—"

Frustration surged like a storm under his skin.

He stood abruptly, dragging his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. His body was tense, every line of muscle drawn tight with memory and fury. He walked barefoot down the hallway to his private gym, dim lights activating with motion.

Steel greeted him. Rows of weights. Punching bags. Mirrors. A room built not for beauty, but discipline.

He started with the bag.

No gloves.

Just fists and silence.

Each hit was a sentence he never said. Each swing a denial. Each breath a betrayal unspoken.

His body moved on instinct — trained, powerful, precise — but his mind was elsewhere.

Flashback –

A younger Aldrin. Laughter on his lips. Mara in a sunlit room, legs crossed, reading philosophy aloud while their world felt invincible.

"We'll change it," she had said.

"Together."

"Or burn it down," he replied, not knowing which of them would take that more seriously.

A kiss. A promise.

A future that never came to pass.

Back in the present, Aldrin slammed a fist into the bag with a guttural growl that echoed across the stone walls.

"You're not real," he whispered.

But she was.

And she had touched him.

Not just with fingers — with history.

Sweat glistened on his skin as he slowed, breath labored, heart pounding. He leaned on the bag, forehead pressed against it like confession.

She had always wanted more.

Power. Purpose. Chaos.

He had wanted peace.

But now... now she was here. And she hadn't even looked at Iris.

He closed his eyes, and in the dark behind his lids — he didn't see Mara.

He saw Iris.

The way she had danced. The light on her face. The hurt she might be hiding.

"Iris…"

But the name stayed in his mouth like something sacred.

He exhaled. Sat on the bench. Let the silence return.

And in another part of the city — the night was still not over.

Cut to: Iris

She sat in her dressing room, the gala long behind her, the silence around her pressing in.

Her emerald gown lay discarded across a velvet chair, her hair pinned half-heartedly, her lips bare of gloss now. The moonlight crept across the vanity mirror, catching the tremble in her fingers as she traced them against her wrist.

She had seen it.

Seen her.

That woman.

That past.

Iris exhaled, long and slow, eyes closing.

"I shouldn't care," she whispered.

But she did.

She didn't know what Mara had been. Not fully. But she had seen enough in Aldrin's face to understand.

He wasn't just shaken.

He was haunted.

And the hardest part?

She could feel herself slipping.

Into care. Into danger.

Into something deeper than she'd meant to fall.

The stars outside shimmered faintly, like they too held their breath.

And in that soft quiet — something between a prayer and a warning stirred inside her.

"Please… don't make me love a man who isn't ready to be loved."

Iris stood by the window, arms folded across her silk robe, staring at the distant sprawl of lights like she could gather her thoughts from the skyline. But no amount of starlight would undo what she saw tonight — or the way it etched itself across her chest like a bruise.

A soft knock tapped at the door, followed by Isabella's voice, ever calm, ever knowing.

"Darling? You still wearing regret and overthinking like perfume?"

Iris smirked, despite herself. "It suits me."

The door cracked open, and Isabella stepped in — dark and elegant in a black satin slip beneath her robe, like a specter of truth and composure. But behind her came someone with a louder step and louder smile: Aria.

Wild-eyed. Brilliant. And dressed in silk pants, bare feet, and chaos.

"Hope you're decent," Aria called. "I didn't bring wine, but I did bring opinions."

Iris blinked. "Aria?"

"In the flesh. And thank the gods I didn't miss the drama — I live for this kind of mess."

She glided into the room like she owned it, her honey-brown curls pinned with a casual grace, eyes bright with too much understanding. With zero ceremony, she helped herself to the tea tray and poured a cup, then waved the steam toward her face dramatically.

"I swear, Aldrin only falls for fires," she sighed. "And not your dainty candlelight, oh no — it's always bonfires and arson and women with bloodied hands or poetic hearts. Sometimes both."

Iris gave her a wary look.

"I'm not one of his... fires."

Aria raised a brow over the teacup. "That so?"

She sipped.

"Could've fooled me. You've got that 'trying-not-to-burn' look."

Isabella, still by the door, offered a small nod toward the couch. "You should sit for this."

Iris hesitated, then obeyed, curiosity warring with the dull ache behind her sternum. Aria flopped down beside her with the grace of a dancer and the tact of a hurricane.

She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, then looked Iris straight in the eye. All the playfulness softened — not gone, but gentled by sincerity.

"I won't stay long. Just long enough to tell you a story."

Iris tilted her head.

"A story?"

Aria smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Yes. About a boy I knew. Not by blood, but by something stronger. A boy with fire in his hands and frost in his heart. Who learned too young how to survive, but never quite figured out how to stay."

She swirled her tea slowly.

"You see, Aldrin doesn't fall in love the way normal men do. He doesn't wade in. He dives. And once he's in... he doesn't know how to come back up."

Iris held her breath.

Aria placed the cup down.

"So before you decide if you're going to wait for him, chase him, or leave him — let me tell you the full story. Because once you hear it, you'll know…"

Her voice softened.

"Whether you're meant to stand beside his flame…

Or drown in the night that is Aldrin."

And the room fell into a hush, the kind that signals the beginning of something ancient, and honest.