Chapter 78: Chapter Seventy Seven

Athena

I stepped into the house just after eight, my heels dangling from one hand and my purse slung over my shoulder. Every part of me ached from the long hours, but it was the emotional fatigue that weighed me down the most. I had barely taken two steps inside when Lysander’s voice rang out from the kitchen.

“Are you seriously going to keep letting him do this to you?”

I sighed. “Good evening to you too.”

“Don’t deflect,” he said, appearing in the doorway. His tie hung loose around his neck, and a drink rested in his hand. “You’ve come home past midnight three times this week. He’s pushing you, Athena. This isn’t normal.”

I dropped my shoes by the door. “He’s my boss.”

“He’s your ex,” Lysander snapped. “And he’s using that against you. Don’t you see what he’s doing?”

I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. “Of course I see it.”

“Then why aren’t you doing something about it?”

“Because we can’t afford for me to lose this job,” I shot back. “You know how tight things are right now. Your promotion hasn’t come through yet, and we’re still drowning in the Sanderson debt. If I quit, we lose our footing. You know that.”

After I left Beatrix’s house all those years ago, she didn’t bother checking if I was dead or alive—until a year before my graduation. That’s when she showed up, not to see me, but to demand every cent she’d ever spent on raising me. 

I was stunned. I reminded her that I never asked to be adopted, but I chose not to argue. I agreed.

A month later, she sent me a bill: ten million euros.

I showed it to Lysander. He threatened to sue her, but the timing was cruel. His parents were in a fatal accident on their way home from a wedding. His father died on the spot. His mother never woke up.

Since then, we’ve only managed to pay three million. And I hadn’t forgotten the three thousand I still owed Eros—money he’d lent me when Beatrix accused me of stealing her jewelry. I swore I’d pay him back with my first paycheck. No matter how irritating he was.

Lysander exhaled, his shoulders tight with frustration. “You think this is just about money?”

I turned to face him. “No. I think this is about survival." My voice dropped. "Look, I get it—you hate that I’m working for Eros. I do too. But you have to trust that I’m handling it. He didn’t hire me because he missed me, Lysander. He hired me to punish me.”

Lysander’s frown deepened. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m telling you the truth,” I said softly. “This isn’t about feelings. It’s about control. He wants to remind me that I cost him his family. He hasn’t forgiven me.”

“And you’re okay being his punching bag?”

“I’m not a punching bag,” I said, voice steady. “I’m surviving. Every single day, I walk into that office and survive."

If only Lysander knew how intimately I knew survival, he wouldn’t waste his breath worrying about me breaking down. I had been surviving long before now. 

With James as my father—I survived. After James—I endured. With Beatrix, I survived. Before Eros, after Eros—still, I survived.

I wasn’t just familiar with survival. I embodied it.

Nothing could break me. Not even the boy I once believed knew me better than I knew myself.

\~~~~

The next day, I was seated outside Eros’s office, typing a memo and trying to ignore the way my skin prickled every time he passed by. Which he did. A lot. Just to get under my skin.

Just before lunch, he stopped beside my desk.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, voice casual. “Tired yet?”

“I’m doing great, sir. I love my job,” I replied in a monotone voice without looking up.

“Good. Cancel my three o’clock. And call the Minister of Finance. I want dinner with him by Thursday.”

“Of course,” I said flatly, my eyes still glued to the screen.

“And Athena?”

I finally looked up. His eyes gleamed with mockery.

“I like it when you wear red,” he said, before strolling down the hallway toward the elevator.

I exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around my pen.

This was going to be a long war.

******

Eros

In the weeks that followed, I made it my mission to turn Athena’s life into a waking nightmare.

I set impossible deadlines, undermined her ideas in meetings, and revised campaign briefs without notice just to watch her scramble. When credit was due, her name was last—if mentioned at all. But when blame came knocking, she was always at the front of the line.

She never once complained.

She arrived before anyone else and stayed long after the office lights dimmed. When her work was dismissed, she refined it. When I rejected her proposals without explanation, she rewrote them—over and over—until I gave a silent nod.

I watched her closely, waiting for the cracks to show. I expected her to buckle under the weight I kept piling on. But no matter how hard I pushed, she remained unshaken. Calm. Composed. Unbothered. 

Sometimes, in fleeting moments when no one else was looking, I thought I saw her flinch. But she never let it show.

She met every challenge I threw her way with quiet defiance and relentless resolve.

And yet, the harder I tried to wear her down, the more it was me unraveling. The anger I’d clung to for years was dulling at the edges.

One night, I stood by the window in my office, a half-empty glass of whiskey in hand. The city lights glared back at me through the glass, but all I could see was my own reflection—older, wearier, far lonelier than I remembered being and hollowed out by something I hadn’t dared to name.

I told myself I hated her. That this was justice. Retribution. But each day I saw her walk in with her chin lifted and her fire unshaken, that lie cracked a little more.

I remembered the sound of her laughter—light, unrestrained. The way she used to look at me like I was the center of her universe. That girl was gone. In her place stood a woman forged in silence, grief, and grit. A woman I couldn't shake—no matter how hard I tried.

I set the glass down and rubbed my temples, feeling the weight of twelve years press against my chest.

I thought I could hate her forever.

But the truth was, I’d never stopped thinking about her. Not for a second.

The door creaked open.

I turned.

Athena stood there with her tablet in hand, exhaustion in her eyes. “You asked for the revised deck by eight. It’s done.”

I gave a faint nod, unable to find my voice.

She paused. She didn’t leave right away. “If your goal is to break me, just know—it won’t happen.”

“I know,” I said, voice low.

God, I knew. I tried everything to break her, but she never cracked. 

That’s when it hit me.

It was me. I was the one falling apart—splintering, piece by piece.

She looked taken aback by the shift in my tone but said nothing. “Goodnight, Mr. Belmonte.”

“Goodnight… Athena.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, the silence wrapped around me like a confession. The truth settled over me, heavier than hate, more terrifying than regret.

I didn’t hate her.

I never did.

And what scared me most was realizing—I still loved her.

And maybe… I always had.