Her jaw tightened. Say no or say yes. Just say something.
But the words don't come. Not when his voice lingers in the air like smoke, like the memory of what they once were.
"Well?" he urged, more gently now—dangerously so. "You owe me that much." He held uis palms as he leaned on the table.
She swallowed hard. Her throat with a lump,
Not from guilt. Not exactly.
From the truth.
From the weight of it.
From what it cost her to carry it alone.
"I didn't choose that," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes narrow. A flicker of confusion evident in his expression.
"So it happened anyway."
It wasn't a question, it was a deduction.
She looks down, blinking fast. Her fingers curl into her palms.
She remembered the pain, the blood. The cold tile. The silence afterward, and the painful memories of her miscarriage.
How she'd hated herself for crying.
"You disappeared," he says again, quieter now, like the memory was playing in their heads like a projector.
She exhales, shakily.
"I didn't hate you."
'I hated myself.' her own voice echoed in her mind.
Thsi time, he rose from his seat and approached her way. There's no smirk this time. No arrogance.
Just a devastating stillness.
"So what was it, then?" he asks.
Her eyes flick up, meeting his glass-clear gaze.
And then, before any progression,
The front door creaks open. A voice calls from down the hall.
Lilith jolted at the sound, and turned away instinctively, like the moment's been shattered.
His gaze lingers, but he says nothing more. Atleast—
Not yet.
"You should go," she says, her tone restrained from holding back tears, like the door hasn't just opened on the hall but inside her, too.
He doesn't move.
Outside the room, footsteps shuffle. A knock on a distant wall. Someone humming out of tune.
"This isn't finished," he says, eyes still on her, unreadable now.
"It never was," she replies.
He lingers for a second longer, deliberating whether to say more. Like he might take her apart if given the chance.
But he doesn't.
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
And she finally lets out the breath she'd been holding back as if for years.
She presses her hands to her face, fingers trembling.
'Back then..'
He thinks I chose it.
Let him think that. It would be easier for both of us
Truth is, she'd been too late to choose anything.
By the time she realized what was happening, it was already over.
No doctor. No one at her side. Just tile and pain, and silence.
And fear that if she told him, he'd look at her like she was broken.
Like she was something to be pitied.
Not something he'd ever fight for. Why? because she finally knew the truth about him—that she was decieved.
A phone buzzes on the counter, which caught her attention.
She stole glances at the screen.
"Unknown Number."
She stared at it for a while and chose to leave it as is.
Tired from recalling unhinged memories, she then turns and walks to the window, the city cold and bright outside.
The glow of the city spills through the glass panes, fractured lights blinking like distant stars against the cold urban sprawl. She grips the edge of the curtain, fingers pressing into the fabric as if grounding herself against the weight of lingering thoughts.
The phone buzzed again. This time it kept ringing, and unyeilding.
She exhales, watching her breath clash against the chilled glass. Why now?After years, after so many scars that never healedbwhy did her past insist on clawing its way back into the present?
The silence lingered around her, thick with unspoken words and regrets she never voiced.
She doesn't turn back. Doesn't reach for the phone. She lets it sit, untouched, vibrating against the marble counter like it was never there.
She wonders if he knew.
Her grip tightens on the curtain.
No. She can't afford that kind of thinking.
She's stronger now. Sharper. A version of herself that knows better than to fall into old habits, old wounds, old arms that once held her like she was something precious—before reality shattered that illusion.
And yet—
Her gaze flickers, drawn unwillingly to the phone, still buzzing against the counter. The screen dims, then lights again, the unknown number staring back at her like a challenge.
She knew it wasn't her phone, and that she should be curious. But the conversation that took place in the dining table took a toll on her. She thought about tossing it into a drawer, and let it vanish into the quiet space between forgotten things.
However, she felt that something was urging her to defy her inner feelings.
She glided her fingers on the screen and accepted the call.
An unfamiliar voice of a woman was on the other line,
"Hey, why did you take so long to pick up?" her tone irate. Lilith stayed quiet—ensuring no sound would be heard on her side of the line.
"So? how was it? we agreed that you'd wipe out the Marchesi's, Why do I hear that you're keeping some girl at your house?" The woman threatened.
"That's not your business." Lilith gasped. He was behind her, but since when? He took the call like a gentleman and wrapped her in his arms from behind.
"Don't call me." He decalred before ending the call.
He stared at Lilith, who was as stiff as a board.
"Why did you pick up?" he whispered, burying his face on her collarbones.
"Since when did you.." Lilith struggled to steady her breath. "Since just now." He replied promptly.
"You're not usually interested in my belongings." His voice soft and his lips etched a smile.
"I didn't know it was yours, I thought it was someone else's.." She paused. Her choice of words were wrong.
Rafael tightened his grip on her, hodling her still. "I'm not just 'some others'." His voice brimmed with frustration.