Chapter Twelve: When She Walks Away

The suitcase wasn't heavy, yet every step Lia took toward the door felt like dragging a mountain.

Damien stood at the top of the stairs, one hand braced against the banister, his expression unreadable. He didn't try to stop her. That, more than anything, cut Lia the deepest.

"Are you going somewhere?" His voice was low, almost casual.

She turned, heart hammering, palms sweaty. "Yes. I can't keep doing this, Damien. I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm done."

He descended one step, then another, but she backed away instinctively.

"Lia..."

"No." She held up a hand. "Don't say anything if you don't mean it. Don't act like you care one second, and then freeze me out the next. I'm not your toy. I'm not part of some twisted power play."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Damien's jaw clenched. "You're overreacting."

She laughed; sharp, bitter. "Right. Because walking out of a fake marriage that's gotten too real is just me being dramatic?"

He didn't answer. He didn't move.

"I tried," she whispered. "I tried to see past your walls. I tried to understand. But I can't keep standing here, begging for scraps of warmth when I know I deserve more."

The taxi honked outside.

She turned, dragging the suitcase over the threshold. Damien didn't follow.

The silence in the penthouse was suffocating after she left. Damien moved through the rooms like a ghost. Her mug sat by the sink. Her cardigan still hung on the back of the chair. The scent of her shampoo lingered in the bathroom.

Gloria paused in the hallway when she saw him standing by the door, unmoving.

"Sir?"

He didn't answer.

"She left her scarf," she said gently. "Want me to send it after her?"

He turned slowly, the haunted look in his eyes making her pause.

"No," he said hoarsely. "Leave it."

Gloria nodded and walked away, but not before casting him a glance filled with quiet pity.

Lia didn't go back to her mother's house. That would've led to questions she wasn't ready to answer.

Instead, she booked a tiny room above a bookstore in a quieter part of town. It wasn't luxurious, but it was hers. Simple. Peaceful.

She curled up on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling.

She didn't cry.

She'd done enough of that over Damien Cross.

But her chest felt like it had been hollowed out and replaced with lead. Even when she tried to distract herself with a book, her eyes kept drifting to the window.

Waiting.

For what, she didn't know.

Three days passed.

Three agonizingly long days.

Damien didn't call. Didn't text. Didn't appear at her door.

She hated how much that hurt.

She was halfway through sorting job listings when someone knocked.

Her heart leapt.

She opened the door.

Not Damien.

Ethan.

She blinked in surprise. "Ethan?"

He looked tired, suit slightly wrinkled. "Can I come in?"

She stepped aside.

He sat on the edge of the bed like a man about to deliver news no one wanted to hear.

"Did something happen?" she asked, dread pooling.

"No. Not exactly."

"Then why are you here?"

He met her eyes. "Because Damien's a coward."

She laughed bitterly. "I already knew that."

"He's also miserable. The office hasn't seen him. He barely speaks. Won't eat. Vanessa came sniffing around again, he didn't even blink."

Lia folded her arms. "So what? I'm supposed to feel sorry for him?"

"No," Ethan said. "But I figured you should know he's not okay."

Her chest twisted. "He could've come himself."

"I told him that. Repeatedly. He just kept saying you were better off."

"Better off?" Her voice rose. "How noble."

Ethan studied her. "You still care."

She looked away.

"I'll go," he said quietly. "Just… don't write him off completely yet."

When the door closed behind him, Lia sank onto the bed.

That night, Damien finally cracked.

He found himself standing outside her window. The street was quiet. The bookstore sign above glowed softly in the dark.

She was inside, curled up on the bed, reading.

He almost left.

But then she looked up.

And saw him.

She didn't move. Neither did he.

Seconds stretched.

Then she opened the window.

"What are you doing here?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just… couldn't stay away anymore."

She stared at him, arms crossed on the windowsill.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For freezing you out. For shutting down. For not following you that day."

Her throat tightened. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I was scared. Because I thought if I let you in any deeper, you'd see the parts of me that even I hate."

Her breath caught.

"I'm not good at this," he continued. "I'm not good at feelings. Or trust. Or love."

"Then why come now?"

He stepped closer.

"Because the silence without you is louder than anything I've ever known."

She didn't respond.

"I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't even expect you to come back. But I needed you to know… I miss you. Every second."

Lia hesitated. Then quietly, "You broke my heart."

"I know," he said. "And I hate myself for it."

They stood in silence. The night wrapped around them, heavy with unsaid words.

"Goodnight, Damien," she whispered finally, and closed the window.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the darkened glass.

But for the first time in days, he didn't feel like he was drowning.

The next morning, Lia found a letter slipped under her door.

Her name scrawled in Damien's unmistakable handwriting.

She picked it up, heart in her throat.

Inside, in barely-legible ink,

were five words:

"I'll wait. Until you're ready."

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

She didn't know what would happen next.

But for now, she let herself hope.