11. " IN EVERY WOUND, THERE WAS US"

Lyra sat silently at one end of the long marble table, her spoon untouched. The soup before her had gone cold, just like her hunger. Sunlight streamed in through the tall arched windows of the mansion's grand dining hall, casting soft golden reflections on the glossy floor tiles. It was a beautiful morning, but the weight inside her chest made everything feel grey.

The mansion had a thousand rooms, some even untouched for years. But none felt like home to her. None of them offered the peace her heart was aching for. The air around her was quiet, too quiet—yet it felt thick with the presence of unsaid things, of memories that weren't hers and truths that no one dared to speak aloud.

Rayaan had handed her that mysterious diary the night before. Since then, he hadn't said a single word about it. No explanation. No reasoning. Just a calm face and a thousand-layered silence. When Lyra had tried to ask him about it, he had simply said:

> "Time will slowly tell you everything."

And with that, he'd walked away, leaving her alone with pages that seemed to whisper pieces of someone else's life. Or maybe... her own?

Across the hall, Rayaan sat at the other end of the long table, deeply engrossed in a file. He looked as put-together as always—black shirt, sharp jawline, a face carved in stone. But something about his stillness unnerved her. Though they were only a few feet apart, they felt like strangers standing on two separate cliffs with a storm raging in between.

She had stopped stealing glances at him. Not because she didn't want to... but because every glance made her feel like she was falling—into memories that didn't make sense, into emotions that didn't belong entirely to the present.

Was her fear fading?

Or were her questions growing louder?

Her fingertips tapped the side of her cup restlessly. She didn't even notice that her leg had been bouncing under the table for the past five minutes.

Suddenly, the heavy silence was broken.

Zorav entered, brisk and alert, holding a brown envelope in his hand.

> "Boss… It's from the legal team. Marked urgent."

Rayaan looked up calmly, nodded once, and placed his file aside. He took the envelope, opened it with precise fingers, and began to read.

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes did. The mask cracked for a split second. He folded the paper carefully and placed it back on the table.

Lyra had been watching from across the room. She noticed that flicker in his eyes. Confusion curled in her stomach like a tight knot.

> "What happened?" she asked softly.

Rayaan looked at her, and in a voice low and almost bitter, he replied:

> "Your past just knocked on the door again."

The blood drained from her face.

> "John?" she whispered, as if the name alone carried poison.

> "Yeah…" His reply was quiet, but it was lined with steel.

Later that afternoon, Lyra sat in her room with the legal notice in her hands. Her fingers trembled as she read the words.

> "Rayaan Malik is illegally sheltering my ex-wife with criminal intentions…"

Each line dug into her like glass shards.

> "Seduced him."

"Emotional manipulation."

"Used mafia protection for fame."

These weren't accusations—they were a weapon. And John had aimed every sentence at her soul.

Her eyes burned. Her lips trembled.

> "How long do I have to fight for my dignity?"

"Why do I always feel guilty… even when I've done nothing wrong?"

She gripped the paper tighter, rage and helplessness flaring inside her chest. And then, unable to hold it in, she tore at it—desperate to rip the lies apart.

But in the process, a sharp edge of the paper sliced her finger. Blood bloomed across her skin, small but vivid. Her vision blurred. The room spun slightly.

And in that fragile moment, the door creaked open.

Rayaan stepped inside.

His eyes immediately caught the blood on her finger.

He froze for a split second, then rushed to her. What was just a cut for anyone else… became a siren in his chest. A flash of something deeper surged inside him. His breath hitched. His heart—normally steady as a weapon—skipped.

He knelt beside her, gently taking her hand into his.

There was no coldness in his touch. Only urgency. Worry.

> "Did you get hurt?"

His voice cracked with something he couldn't hide.

Lyra blinked.

> "It's nothing. Just a scratch."

But Rayaan didn't listen. He grabbed the first-aid kit, opened it with shaky hands, and carefully cleaned the wound. His fingers were warm as he applied the ointment, then softly wrapped a bandage around her finger.

She stared at him, breath caught in her throat.

Why… did he care this much?

> "Why are you so concerned?" she finally asked.

"Why do you always worry about me like this?"

Rayaan paused. His eyes searched hers. Then he whispered:

> "Because you're not just some woman, Lyra."

"You're the one who kept me alive… when the world wanted me dead."

Her eyes widened.

> "Me...? What do you mean?"

He looked away.

> "Nothing. It'll all make sense with time."

> "You always say that, Rayaan!"

"But I'm tired of this fog in my mind. I'm tired of these flashes—these memories that don't belong. If this goes on... I'm going to lose myself."

Her voice cracked, and with it came the tears. Silent, broken, honest.

Rayaan exhaled slowly.

> "You don't have to remember everything right now," he said gently.

"Even if you've forgotten... I haven't."

> "Then tell me!" she cried.

"When will you free me from this confusion?"

> "Soon," he whispered. "Just… not today."

He wiped her tears with the back of his fingers. It wasn't rehearsed or dramatic. It was… real.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the distant hills, Rayaan stood on the mansion's balcony with Zorav by his side.

> "Boss," Zorav said seriously, "John's getting aggressive. He's using the media now. Trying to twist your image. His target isn't just Lyra—it's you. Your empire."

Rayaan didn't blink.

> "Let him try," he said calmly. "Let him do what he wants."

He leaned against the balcony's stone railing, eyes distant.

> "Because when I strike... it'll only be once. And that will be the end of it."

He paused.

> "But I will never let Lyra go back to him. Never."

Zorav gave him a strange look.

> "Are you trying to convince me… or yourself?"

"Since when does the coldest man in the mafia care this deeply for someone?"

Rayaan said nothing. His gaze shifted toward the window of Lyra's room, faintly glowing under the night sky.

> "I'm not just protecting her," he murmured.

"I'm giving her a reason to live again."

"And maybe… I'm giving one to myself too."

That night, Lyra sat by her window, pen in hand, writing in her diary. The pages had become her refuge—the only place where her chaos could breathe without judgment.

> "Today," she wrote, "Rayaan treated a tiny cut like I was dying.

His hands were warm—not just with heat, but with pain he tried to hide.

There's something in him I can't explain.

Sometimes… I wonder if I played a part in his life before."

She paused.

Then, with a torn corner of her page, she scribbled a note:

> "Did you know me from before, Rayaan?"

She folded it and slipped it quietly under his door.

Later, Rayaan sat at his desk, flipping through some documents, when he noticed the small note.

He picked it up, read it slowly.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Then, beneath her words, he wrote:

> "You may have forgotten, but I remember every day. You are the only moment in my life

that I live through every night."

He folded it once and placed it gently inside a small personal box—next to a 2.5-year-old medical file and a copy of Lyra's NGO application.

A story long buried… was beginning to surface again.