May Smith clings to her husband, her face buried in his chest, clutching his sweater as she sobs uncontrollably.
Her Neva—her little girl—doesn't recognize her.
Niall Smith is equally heartbroken. But he knows he must stay strong for his wife. So, he paralyses his own hurt, gently rubbing the small of her back.
"Oh Niall, our daughter… How could anyone be so cruel?" she weeps, her tears soaking into his sweater.
Her choking sobs tear at his heart.
"Breathe, May. Just breathe," Niall whispers, pressing his chin to the top of her head. "Neva is strong. She's always found a way to heal. She will this time too."
"She's even a mother now."
May only cries harder. She was astray all those years—adrift—when Neva needed her most. She should have been there to guide her, to reassure her, to be her anchor.
How terrified must Neva have been, stepping into motherhood so young?
What kind of condemned life had she lived all these years?
May feels like she has failed her—failed Neva, her brother, and her sister-in-law.
And yet… it was only hours ago that they were prisoners in their own manor on the outskirts of Edinburgh, Scotland—until a stranger arrived at dawn and rescued them, bringing them here to Erriador.
As they finally breathed fresh air beyond the manor walls, they found the guards had vanished without a trace.
Three years ago, armed men in black suits had stormed their home, murdering their maids in cold blood right before their eyes.
From then on, the men always kept a watchful eye on them.
They weren't physically tortured—except in the one way that mattered: they were stripped of their freedom.
To this day, they still don't fully understand why, or who was truly behind it.
Not until today—when the young man revealed it was the same man who had taken Neva.
He spoke of how Neva's husband had spent all these years desperately searching for her. It was only recently that he finally discovered even the slightest clue about her location.
But now… even that husband—her devoted other half—is a stranger to her.
And their beautiful son? She no longer remembers carrying him, let alone giving birth.
A knock sounds at the door.
May pulls away, hiccupping, her tears still falling.
"Come in," Niall says as he grabs the tissue box from the nightstand and hands her a few napkins.
The door opens, revealing the man who arrived earlier that night with Neva and her husband.
He had introduced himself as Ace—the one who told them Neva was here.
"Yes? Can I help you with something?" Niall asks gently.
Ace shakes his head. "No, just letting you know dinner's arrived. Is Japanese food all right?"
"Absolutely. We'll be there in a moment," Niall replies with a small smile.
Ace nods once, then closes the door behind him. He steps over to the next closed door and raises his fist to knock—but hesitates.
He sighs in distress and shakes his head. His boss is inside—with his wife. And Ace isn't sure if it's right to interrupt them.
After years of separation, their reunion is already complicated enough—carrying the weight of a future that demands healing for an eternity lost.
What a deep sea he's caught in between couples.
"Man, I'm hungry," Ace grumbles, making a beeline for the dining table in the living room, where the hot Japanese takeout waits—ready to be devoured.
---
Neva sits at the fore of the bed, knees folded beneath her.
She doesn't want to believe it.
Nothing makes sense anymore. It's too much to take in. The man who tried to kill Ishmael… is her husband?
And they even had a son?
An aunt and uncle she never knew existed? It was absurd.
These strangers spoke to her as if she had returned from something tragic.
But she was safe. Blissfully married. She was content with Ishmael and their children.
What could possibly have gone so horribly wrong in just a matter of hours?
It felt like only moments ago she was in the garden, reading on the swing, watching Ishmael laugh with their twins.
How could everything change so suddenly?
The weight of it all crashes down on her—too much, too fast.
Neva feels herself sinking beneath the tide of confusion, grief, and disbelief, numb as emotion swells and constricts her chest.
She buries her head in her folded arms, resting them against her knees, trying to block out a reality she doesn't understand—one that feels like it doesn't belong to her.
Then, with tight, downturned lips, she casts a glance at the man sitting across from her on the edge of the bed.
He's the one responsible for all of this.
He showed up—and turned her world upside down.
She hasn't said a word.
Neither has he.
They are just settled there in silence.
While she crumbles and cries, sinking deeper into the weight of everything—he simply sits and watches her quietly.
But then… something shifts.
A spark seeps in through the thread of their fastened eyes.
Neva bites her lip when she catches him smiling lightly—his eyes softened, lit with a strange kind of hope.
She frowns and hides her face again, burying herself in the hollow of her arms.
He's a fool! A madman!
He tried to kill Ishmael!
He's dangerous. Someone to fear.
But then again… so is Ishmael.
He attempted it too.
A sudden surge of worry chills her lungs, icing through her chest.
She can't hold it in any longer.
Breaking the silence, she murmurs through folded arms,
"Was he harmed?" Her voice is muffled.
"If you're asking about Raka," Rhett replies coldly, "unfortunately, he wasn't."
Bitterness clings to his words—because the first thing she chooses to ask about… is him.
Yet even so, a strange relief softens the edges of his resentment.
She doesn't completely despise him—not enough to ignore him.
Not enough to waste her breath on someone she considers irredeemable.
For now… he feels enough.
Her divine presence allowing him to be here—in the same room, on the same bed, even if an ocean of space separates them—is enough.
"But I'll make sure he is," Rhett mutters darkly.
Here's that line revised for clarity, grammar, and tone while keeping the emotional weight intact:
And that compels Neva to lift her head, making him the victim of her sharp, accusing glare.
When Neva finally breathes in succor, reassured that he's unharmed? She speaks again—her voice firmer this time.
"You wouldn't," she challenges, testing him.
But that angry little glare… that beautiful, flushed face—it only coaxes a serene smile to his lips.
No matter what she says, no matter how sharp her eyes, he can't help but adore her—burning for her.
Her sacred soul—fragile, fierce, and radiant—slowly healing him—mending wounds he thought time had sealed shut.
And he knows it; knows that no matter how old or scarred he becomes, her mere existence could soothe him—could rebirth him into a saint.
He doesn't say a word.
And somehow, that silence stirs something strange in Neva.
A longing. A need to hear his voice again.
She feels deranged now.
But the just wants him to indulge in her bubbling, bursting questions inside—begging to be set free.
Even if they overwhelm her... tear her apart.
Even if his answers are laced with flattery or riddled with lies.
"Explain it," Neva says.
Rhett raises a brow.
"I asked for a reason," she presses, "for everything you caused today."
He parts his lips to speak, but she cuts him off.
"And I only want the truth," she warns, her eyes fixed and firm.
Rhett sighs. "I've only ever offered you the truth."
He rises and walks over to the navy blue bag—Rhean's—resting on the three-seater green velvet sofa against the wall.
He picks it up, then returns to the bed, sitting closer to her than before… but still keeping a careful distance.
One she wouldn't push back against.
Unzipping the bag, his fingers search until they brush against something cool—a familiar treasure.
Neva watches as he carefully pulls out a thick, red, hard-covered book—vintage, well-worn. A photo album?
She sees the way he holds it, almost reverently.
Rhett glances at her, a flicker of hesitation passing through his eyes.
"Before I show you what's inside," he says softly, "promise me you won't be too hard on yourself."
Then, after a pause—his voice lower, gentler:
"Remember… don't let yourself fail with the past. Live in the present. And dream about the future."
"I won't promise anything," Neva retorts, seizing the album from his hands.
Rhett watches her closely, alert to the slightest flicker of strain, ready to stop her the moment it takes a toll on her.
This photo book—her creation—was bought after their wedding.
She filled it with her own illustrations and pictures, capturing their brief time in Erriador, their marriage, her pregnancy… all the way to baby Rhean's early days.
This is where he begins.
Another step toward earning her back.
Neva sits cross-legged now, the album in her lap.
She isn't exactly stunned to see a woman in the memories—often beside a man.
She looks like her. Unmistakenly a mirror of her.
Same eyes. Same smile. Same laugh frozen in still frames.
She looks up at Rhett, brows faintly knit.
Then she presses her lips into a tight line finding his stare on her.
She gazes down again.
The man in the photos is him.
A flutter stirs in her chest.
Still, she doesn't stop turning the pages.
Until she does.
Neva lingers on a particular page, unable to move on.
Her fingers drift across the photograph as though touching it might bring it to life... and ignite something forgotten.
In a sun-drenched wildflower meadow stands a woman in a long, flaring white coquette dress.
A veil flows from her crown, trailing like mist behind her.
A wreath of flowers rests over her head, and a bouquet of roses fills her hands.
And her arm is wrapped around her groom—a man in a crisp white shirt beneath a black tuxedo.
They are smiling.
Radiant.
They are in love.
The woman looks at him with such tenderness, as though the entire world rests in his eyes.
And he looks at her with such love, as though she is the only thing he's ever believed in.
A single tear falls onto the page.
Then more follow—raining down on the wildflower meadow, on the strange, blissful, gullible bride and groom frozen in time.
Neva aches.
They look at each other as if the world holds no weight, as if nothing else matters so long as they are one.
Her heart mourns for them.
They are enstranged... trapped in a mirage.
There is no such love that truly blooms on this earth—at least, not one that lasts.
And then, quietly, she mourns for herself.
Because if their eyes are the mirror to the soul, what will she do with herself now?
For she hasn't felt anything like them.
Nothing so pure... Nothing so selfless.
And this flicker of flame ignites a dear reverie.
A familiar pleasure.
She curses herself for not being brave enough to rip her deafening heart from its ribs—to silence the ache, to deny the longing.