Trey's POV
The door shut behind me with a thud too loud for what it was. It reverberated in my chest like a cannon, cracking open places I had sealed years ago.
I did not look back. I could not. My feet dragged me down the corridor, heavy as iron, every step a chain pulling me deeper. The staff lowered their heads as I passed, whispers dying on their tongues. To them I was untouchable, unmoved, the master of this house.
Inside, I was burning.
Amara was everywhere around me. Her scent still clung to my ruined suit, and I could still feel the tremble of her body against mine and hear the way she said my name. But the worst part was the kiss I never allowed myself to take, the memory of it burning on my lips like a sin I could not escape.
I made it to the study and slammed the door, shutting out the house, shutting out everything. Here, I did not have to play the role.
I went straight for the decanter. The whisky splashed unevenly, the glass rattling in my hand. The burn down my throat was harsh and punishing, but nowhere near enough to smother the ache.
I should have stopped. Walked away. But my body knew where it was going before I admitted it. To the drawer. To the key. To the thing I had sworn a hundred times I would destroy but never could.
The sketchbook.
I stared at it, the leather worn, her name pressed across the cover like a scar. I should have given it back the day the maid found it. I should have tossed it into the fire. Instead, I stole it like a coward, like a thief who could not let go. And I kept it.
Now it lay open under my hands, guilt clawing deep, my knuckles white as I flipped the first page.
Her artwork.
God, she was really good. Too good actually. The lines were not just drawings. They breathed. The garden, the roses, the hills where we used to vanish from the weight of the house. Every page was alive, more vivid than memory.
And then, me.
My chest hollowed as I traced the lines with my eyes. Me in the library, head bent over a book. Me by the fire, hands in my pockets, half a smile tugging at my mouth.
And us.
Her and me together, on the hills, among the roses, in corners no one else saw. She had sketched what I never dared voice. She was not just the maid's daughter. Not just Tessa's friend. She was Amara. And I had wanted her. Even then.
I dropped my head into my hands, whisky burning again as I swallowed hard. She had been too young. Too pure. Too far out of reach in ways that were not hers to carry. They were mine. Father's rules. The world's rules.
But her drawings betrayed us both. She had seen me and loved me. And I crushed it.
The sketchbook snapped shut under my palms, the leather shuddering like it might split. My fists curled on either side, the weight of denial pressing so hard I thought I would break with it.
I had told myself I was protecting both of us. Better for her to hate me, better for her to think she meant nothing. But staring at the truth in her sketches, I could not lie anymore.
I had not protected her. I had broken her heart countless times.
I shoved the book aside, but my hand lingered, trembling, as if warmth might seep through the pages. The whisky coiled in my gut, but the ache in my chest cut deeper.
And for the first time in years, I let myself picture it. Not Pauline in her diamonds. Not my father's arrangement, but the beautiful face of Amara.
Her laughter spinning off the hills. Her hair brushing my shoulder in the library. Her hand slipping into mine when no one watched. All of it sketched by her, dreamed by her, carried in silence. And I had been blind.
Her scent still haunted me, warm cedar and that faint, maddening perfume. It clung to me like a ghost, reminding me of what I had almost done. Almost kissed her. Almost thrown it all away just to taste her once.
"What the hell are you doing?" I muttered into my palms, my voice raw.
But I knew. I was falling again. For the one woman I had sworn to keep away. The maid's daughter. My sister's friend. My wedding planner. The girl who once confessed her heart while I shattered it.
I opened the sketchbook again. There it was, the page I had glimpsed at breakfast. Us, drawn in wedding clothes, silly comic bubbles hovering above. It should have been nothing, a joke. But in the way she had drawn me looking at her, it was not a joke.
It was a wish. And I had been too much of a coward to see it.
Slowly, I closed the book, my palms flattening over the leather as if to hold her heart inside it. The study pressed in around me, heavy with shadows, heavy with blame.
I thought I had been the strong one all these years, the one holding the line. But staring at those pages, I finally understood.
I had not been protecting her. I had only been protecting myself.
Sleep would not come. I tossed, turned, stared at the ceiling until the first smear of dawn lightened the curtains. My mind kept circling the same point, the same ghost. Amara's face, her voice, the heat of her against me. Every time I shut my eyes, she was there. By the time exhaustion finally dragged me under, it was closer to morning than night.
The shrill ring of my phone yanked me out of it. My hand fumbled across the nightstand, my pulse hammering. It was too early.
Dorothy's name flashed on my screen.
She was officially my secretary, but in truth she was much more than just a personal assistant. Dorothy had been working with me since the day I took over the company at a young age, when many people doubted whether I was capable of leading it.
While others questioned my decisions or waited for me to fail, Dorothy never did.
She stood by my side from the very beginning, helping me navigate endless meetings, difficult negotiations, and the overwhelming responsibilities that came with running a company far larger than I had ever imagined handling alone.
Over the years she had proven herself to be someone I could rely on no matter the situation. She managed my schedule, handled confidential matters with complete discretion, and often solved problems before they even reached my desk.
More importantly, she was one of the very few people I trusted completely.
Dorothy understood how I worked and what I needed without me having to explain. She had seen the most difficult moments of my career and had never once betrayed my confidence.
If there was anyone in the world I could depend on without question, it was Dorothy.
Which was exactly why seeing her name flashing on my screen made me pause for a moment before answering.
I blinked at the screen, fighting the haze. Dorothy never called at this hour unless it was urgent. One of my executive assistants, the one I trusted with my personal affairs.
I thumbed it on. "What is it?" My voice came out rough, thick with sleep.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Alvarez," she rushed out, and I could hear the edge of worry in her tone. "I wouldn't disturb you unless it was serious. There's something you need to see immediately. I've already sent you the link."
That jolted me upright. "What kind of something?"
A beat of silence. "Photos. From last night."
Ice slid through my veins. I did not wait for more. I swung my legs off the bed, grabbed the phone tighter, and opened my email. The link loaded in a blink, and the first image hit me square in the chest.
Me. Not in the boardroom. Not in the clean, polished image the world always saw. These were raw, unfiltered, stolen in the night.
It was me carrying Amara in my arms.
Her head against my chest, my coat around her, my grip on her too tight, too telling. Frame after frame, like some vulture with a camera had followed us from the car to the door. Every angle screamed what I had not said aloud.
Mine.
I cursed under my breath, running a hand through my hair. The clock on the wall glowed past six. Too early for this. Too late to undo it.
Dorothy's voice crackled in my ear again, low and tense. "They're already circulating, sir. Blogs, a few tabloid sites. Nothing mainstream yet, but it's picking up fast."
My jaw locked. My heart pounded as I scrolled through another image. Amara's face was barely visible, her hair spilling against my arm. Vulnerable and exposed.
And me, caught like a man who had already made his choice.
Any trace of sleepless fog vanished instantly, replaced by a storm of emotions I could not even name. Rage mixed with panic, and something deeper. My pulse refused to calm, and my grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white.
I did not waste another second. I showered fast, the water doing nothing to cool the fire under my skin. I dressed on autopilot, crisp shirt, jacket, tie, armor for a war I had not chosen. Every movement was clipped and ruthless, like I could scrub away the images burned into my head. But nothing erased them. Not the suit and the silence.
My wedding planner in my arms and I was looking at her like she belonged with me.