Chapter 15 015
Alejandro's POV
I heard the faint pad of footsteps in the hallway outside my bedroom door. My brows furrowed, and I stopped mid-sentence, the phone still pressed to my ear.
"Ali? Something wrong?" Elena's voice slithered through the speaker, her tone laced with that bossy, older-sister concern that hadn't changed in thirty years.
"Hold on, Lee," I muttered, my eyes fixed on the sliver of darkness visible through the door crack.
It had been two years since I'd seen my sister, two long years of her chasing oil rigs across the North Sea.
Her career as a petroleum engineer meant she frequently vanished into the waves for months at a time, but her absence never diminished the weight of her presence in my life.
She'd called tonight not to offer platitudes, but to tear into me for going radio silent.
Her scolding was fueled by a familiar, fierce affection, reminding me that checking in wasn't optional because, in the end, we were the only ones left.
The reminder hit the same old wound we both carried. Our parents had been stolen by a car crash when I was ten, and she was fifteen, leaving us in the care of Uncle Marco.
He had stepped up, raising us with a father's devotion until cancer claimed him just as I was starting college.
From that moment on, the world had shrunk down to just the two of us.
Three years ago, when Rhea had shattered me and left my life in ruins, Elena hadn't hesitated. She had dropped everything, and flew back from her very first offshore stint to piece me back together.
She had held me while I fell apart, promising me that we would find a way through the wreckage.
That was the woman at the other end of the line tonight—my rock, the only person who had never betrayed me, and would never.
She wasn't a secret lover or a ghost from the past; she was the only home I had left.
"Lee, give me a moment, I'll call you tomorrow," I said, hanging up without waiting for her reply.
I strode to the door and wrenched it open, the sudden movement enough to catch whoever was lurking outside completely off guard.
The hallway stretched before me in a silent expanse of pooling shadows and the dim glow of wall sconces.
It looked empty at first, but then I caught Catherine, the housekeeper, tiptoeing along like she was on some covert mission.
Her graying hair was pulled back into its usual tight bun, and her apron was still knotted over her uniform from the day's chores.
"Catherine?" I called, my voice low but edged with suspicion.
She jumped, spinning around with a hand clamped to her chest, eyes wide like a startled deer.
"Mr. Alvarez! Goodness, you startled me." She gasped, flustered, her cheeks flushing pink under the dim light.
I raised a brow, crossing my arms over my chest.
"What are you doing here?"
She cleared her throat, avoiding my eyes.
"I was heading to bed, sir, but I heard noises. Thought maybe someone had snuck in—perhaps an intruder or... well, you know how these big houses can be at night."
A cold prickle of alarm traveled up my spine.
This house was equipped with security measures that made a bank vault look accessible.
The idea of an intruder—or even a stray sound—didn't sit right.
"Are you certain it was nothing?" I asked, my eyes narrowing as I scanned the dark mouth of the corridor.
She nodded quickly, too quickly. "Oh, yes, sir. Must've been my imagination. The wind, maybe, or the house settling. Sorry for the inconvenience—won't happen again."
She bobbed a quick curtsy-like nod and scurried off down the hall, toward the staff quarters.
I stood there for a long minute, the silence of the house feeling heavy and artificial.
Catherine wasn't one to snoop; she'd been with me for years, loyal and discreet, so the mention of noises sent my mind flicking immediately to Rhea.
Was she wandering the halls in the dead of night, restless and unmoored? I remembered the way she used to pace during finals week back in college, her mind racing until I'd pull her into bed and talk her down.
Curiosity and an old, muscle-memory of concern pulled me toward her room.
My heart gave a slow, painful thud against my ribs as I closed the distance.
When I reached her door, I didn't hesitate. I didn't knock. I simply turned the handle and stepped inside.
Her signature scent—lily and vanilla—had claimed the air. It was soft and intoxicating, a sweet, jarring contrast to the sterile, cold air that usually filled this house.
Her presence dominated the space, claiming it as hers, and it wrapped around me with a suffocating familiarity.
Memories of the nights when she'd curl against me, leaving that same scent on my pillows long after she'd left for class crawled into my head.
She was lying face-down across the pillows, her hair a wild fan across the silk.
She hadn't changed. Even now, she was a rough sleeper, tangling herself in the sheets as if she were fighting a war in her dreams.
Watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, I felt that familiar pull, the one that had once been my north star and was now my greatest weakness.
I walked over and sat on the very edge of the mattress.
The temptation to just lie down behind her, to pull her back against my chest and bury my face in her neck was so strong it cut through my resolve until I could feel it in my marrow.
My hands trembled slightly.
"How did we get to this, Rhea?" I whispered into the dark. My chest felt tight, like it was being constricted by wires.
The words hung in the air, unanswered.
My gaze drifted to the nightstand, and there it was—the ring, discarded like a piece of scrap metal, glinting coldly in the moonlight.
Of course, she'd taken it off.
A flash of irritation surged through me, tangled with a deeper, more agonizing hollow in my chest.
I was suddenly haunted by the memory of a lazy Sunday, years ago, the two of us tangled together on the sofa.
We'd seen some social media post about a woman forgetting her wedding ring and the jealous fallout that followed.
Rhea had laughed it off, her fingers tracing lazy, rhythmic circles against my knuckles. She knew I wasn't the kind of man to be petty; I wouldn't let something so trivial spark a divorce, but for her, the symbol mattered.
She had promised me then that she would never remove a ring of ours, not even if she were dying. She'd talked about it being a permanent part of her, something to be buried with; a testament to a "forever" that felt untouchable back then.
I had scolded her for the morbid thought, pulling her into the safety of my arms, because even the hypothetical idea of losing her felt like a blade to my ribs. It was my greatest fear.
But that was before the photos. Before the betrayal.
Now, the irony was a jagged stone in my throat, hard and impossible to swallow. I was the one engineering this farce, meticulously plotting her downfall as payback for the way she'd shattered me.
It didn't have to be this way—I hadn't wanted this. If she had just stayed faithful, if she hadn't destroyed the one thing I believed in, we would be in that village she dreamed of, and that ring would be a promise, not a contract.
My vendetta usually burned with a steady, white heat, but in the quiet of this room, watching the woman who had once promised me eternity, the fire in my chest began to waver.
I reached out, my fingers hovering just inches from the soft silk of her hair, but I caught myself, and yanked my hand back.
I couldn't afford to be soft. Softness was what got me destroyed the first time.