Chapter 63: Shadows of the Past

Lisa’s POV

The morning starts like any other—coffee gone cold too quickly, an inbox full of messages I don’t want to read, and the faint hum of the office heater struggling against the February chill. But something feels different today. Heavy. Unsteady. As if the air itself is reminding me of something I’ve been trying not to feel.

By noon, the heaviness grows into a pressure behind my ribs. I try to work, try to focus on the next stage of the campaign, the upcoming interviews, the legal drafts, the endless digital noise. But everything blurs in the edges of my vision. My fingers tremble faintly over the keyboard.

Then, without warning, the memory hits.

It always comes the same way—quiet, sneaking, then sharp.

The ultrasound room.

The silence.

The doctor’s eyes when the heartbeat wasn’t there anymore.

My breath leaves my body like someone opened a door inside me and let everything spill out. I sit back in my chair, staring at nothing, gripping the armrests until my knuckles ache. The room tilts, not physically—emotionally.

I had a baby.

I lost a baby.

And no amount of revenge, justice, or public outrage has ever filled that space.

I swallow hard. My throat burns. It’s been months, but the grief still finds new ways to unravel me.

I try to blink the memory away, but my eyes sting. I turn slightly in my office chair, pressing my palm to my chest, trying to ground myself. The walls feel too close. The silence was too loud.

I inhale. Exhale.Fail.

Another wave crashes over me, stronger this time, and suddenly I’m folded forward, elbows on my desk, forehead against my palms. My shoulders shake. Not dramatically, not loudly—just enough to break me open in the quiet way grief always prefers.

A soft knock on the door startles me.

I wipe my face quickly, even though I know it’s too late to completely hide what’s happening.

“Lisa?”

It’s Leo.

Of all people, of all moments—he walks in.

I don’t even answer. I just sit there, stiff and hollow, staring at my keyboard. He closes the door gently behind him, and for a second, the room fills with the warmth he always seems to carry with him, even in the coldest seasons.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t force eye contact or offer clichés. He just steps inside quietly and lowers himself into the chair opposite me, his movements soft, deliberate.

His presence settles the air.

We sit like that.

No words.

No explanations.

Just… being.

It’s absurd how much comfort silence can offer when the right person is in it with you.

A minute passes. Maybe five. Time feels blurry. My chest loosens little by little, like his stillness is coaxing the panic away. I finally look up at him.

His eyes are gentle—not pitying, not probing. Just there. Steady.

And that’s what makes the tears come back.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,” I whisper, even though I know exactly what it is.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says softly.

But I do. The pressure inside me demands release.

“I thought… I thought doing all this—fighting Andre, exposing the truth, building something bigger than him—I thought it would help.” My voice cracks. “I thought maybe it would fill the part of me that feels… empty.”

He leans forward slightly. Not touching, not crowding—just closer.

“But it doesn’t,” I breathe. “Revenge isn’t fixing anything. Not in here.” I tap my chest lightly, the spot that still aches.

Leo nods once, slow and understanding. “Some things don’t get fixed,” he says quietly. “They get carried.”

My throat tightens again.

He studies me for a moment, waiting—not for the right words, but for my breathing to settle. And somehow, it does. The sob that had been mounting dissolves back into a softer ache. The chaos inside me steadies, like a storm calming under a steady hand.

“It’s the memories today,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. “They came out of nowhere.”

His expression gentles even more—something I didn’t think was possible.

Then he reaches out.

Slowly. Gently.

His fingers brush the side of my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen. The touch is feather-light, careful, like he’s afraid I might break under it. But I don’t pull away.

I don’t want to.

His hand lingers for a moment longer than necessary. My breath catches—not from shock, but from the softness of it. The kind of touch meant to comfort, not claim. The kind that feels safer than words.

It’s the first time Leo has touched me like this.

And the first time I’ve let anyone in this deeply since the loss.

Something shifts between us—subtle but undeniable. The air grows warmer, my pulse steadier, the ache in my chest not gone but held. I close my eyes briefly, letting myself feel the moment without guilt.

When I open them again, he’s still watching me.

“You don’t always have to be strong,” he murmurs.

A tear slips down again. He catches this one too.

His touch is gentle, grounding. And in that fragile, quiet moment, I let myself lean—just a little—into his hand. Not fully, not completely, but enough to acknowledge what’s growing between us, delicate and dangerous and real.

“I know,” I whisper. “I just don’t know how to let go.”

“You don’t have to let go,” he replies softly. “You just… don’t have to carry it alone.”

Silence fills the space again, but this time it’s warm, not heavy.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel something soften inside me—not forgiveness, not healing, but the beginning of something gentler. Something human.

Leo lowers his hand slowly, deliberately, giving me space to breathe again. But the warmth of his touch lingers, bright and alive against my skin.

I exhale shakily.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He nods once, eyes full of something I’m not ready to name.