Chapter Ten: The Cracks Beneath
Asa stood in the doorway, unmoving, as sunlight poured in behind him like a holy thing, yet his silhouette made it feel like a shadow.
His eyes those peculiar grey eyes held a storm that refused to calm. Nuria stood across the room, clutching the hem of her sweater, her bare feet cool on the marble floors of their home.
Their home. The word felt jagged now, like it didn't quite fit.
She had been cleaning, humming something from childhood, when she heard the door click. Then silence. Then that gaze. And it was as if the world around her slowed.
"Asa," she whispered, forcing a smile. "You're early."
He didn't respond. Not immediately. He stepped in, shut the door with unnatural calm, and let his briefcase fall with a thud. The sound made her flinch.
Something in his face flickered—regret, maybe. Or pain. But the smile that followed was too perfect. Too shaped.
"I missed you," he said.
She tried to nod, but it was hard to swallow the unease.
---
That night, Asa stood before the mirror in their bathroom, shirtless, watching his own reflection like it was someone else. The steam curled around the glass, and his breath fogged it further, but he made no move to wipe it. His fingers twitched at his sides.
He had sworn to destroy her.
The girl with the vivid green eyes, the trembling voice, the one who had lifted a gun with small hands that night long ago and—he thought—ended his father's life. He had traced her, followed the names, built his empire with one final goal. And yet…
Her smile.
The softness with which she touched the world.
The way she believed in goodness, despite everything.
He clenched his fists.
"I hate her," he muttered.
But the words had no weight.
Later, in bed, he stared at her as she slept. Her lashes fluttered with dreams, her breath light. She didn't even stir when he hovered his hand over her neck again. Inches. That was all. Just inches away from erasing the ache.
But she stirred, lips parting with a gentle sigh, eyes fluttering open.
"Asa?" she murmured.
He snapped his hand back and smiled—warm, lazy, endearing. "Just watching you. You're beautiful in sleep."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She turned over, and he watched the curl of her spine.
---
Days passed. Weeks, even. And Asa tried. God, he tried. He bought her flowers, kissed her like he used to, made her tea the way she liked. But the edge never dulled. Every time she flinched, something inside him coiled in a way he couldn't explain. The predator and the protector fought.
He called an old contact—Milo.
Milo had been the butler at the estate before everything fell apart. He remembered Asa as a broken child, clinging to silence like it was armor.
Now, Asa brought him into his apartment.
"You'll live here," Asa said. "I need someone I can trust."
"This is my wife, Nuria, Nuria, this is my childhood butler, Milo", Asa said softly.
Milo, old and upright, looked at Nuria with kind eyes. "It's a pleasure, ma'am."
Nuria gave a small smile. It was the first softness she'd seen in days.
Alongside Milo came five new maids:
Ines, a calm, matronly woman in her fifties, who always smelled of lavender and spoke gently.
Cleo, sharp-eyed and reserved, clearly the quiet observer.
Mayla, the youngest—naïve, bright, and always eager to please.
Beatrice, tall, with a firm voice and an older-sister aura.
Ruth, whose hands never stopped moving, always cleaning, always muttering hymns.
They filled the house with sound, motion, distraction.
But Asa was still Asa.
---
He watched Nuria from the library door as she read, unaware of his gaze.
He loved her. He hated her.
He wanted to cradle her. He wanted to scream.
And the past…
It haunted him.
Blood.
Screams.
The smell of iron.
He had hidden under a table that night. He had seen everything. The shadow of a girl. The shot. The blood.
He'd told himself then: Survive. Then avenge.
But love came in like a tide and erased the shorelines of rage.
Now he was just… drowning.
He stepped into the room. Nuria looked up, offering a small smile. "Hey."
"Hey," he said, voice strained. "Want to go for a walk?"
She hesitated. "I—maybe later."
His jaw ticked.
Then he softened. "Okay."
She watched him go.
Later, she found a note on her pillow:
I'm trying. Please don't stop loving me.
Her hands trembled.
What was she supposed to do when love looked like both sanctuary and storm?