Chapter Eighty Four

Chapter Eighty Four
Athena
When I stepped through the door, Lysander was waiting. A bouquet of pale pink lilies—my favorite—was cradled in his trembling hands, and guilt weighed heavily in his eyes. His tie hung loose around his neck, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the familiar scent of cedarwood clung to him as he took a hesitant step forward.

“Athena,” he breathed my name like a prayer. “I—I’m sorry. For everything. I was wrong.”

He held out the flowers, hands unsteady.

I looked at them… then at him—the man I had once vowed to love in sickness and in health, through calm and chaos. My heart hadn’t turned to stone. Not completely.

I stared at the bouquet longer than I meant to, uncertain whether to reach for it or walk away. The bruise on my heart from the night before had only just begun to fade, but the memory of his raised hand still burned vividly in my mind.

Yet the man standing before me now didn’t look like the one who had lost control. This wasn’t the man who yelled, who struck. This was the man I once knew—the boy I married. 

The one I loved with everything I had. Slowly, I took the bouquet from his hands. The sweet, familiar scent hit me like a wave—bittersweet and aching with memories of gentler days.

He stepped aside, giving me room to enter. The house smelled faintly of sandalwood and rosemary—his attempt, perhaps, to cultivate calm.

“I’ve started seeing someone,” he said, trailing behind me. “A therapist. Only once so far, but I’m going again. I promise. I’ve been reading too. Trying to understand… myself.”

I said nothing.

“Athena,” he added, his voice cracking. “I don’t want to lose you.”

There was something raw in his tone—an ache that chipped away at the walls I’d built. And against the cold, rational voice in my head urging caution, I let myself wonder—just for a moment—if there was still something here worth saving.

Maybe it was the flowers. Maybe it was the vulnerability in his stance—stripped of ego, utterly exposed. Whatever it was, I nodded.

“I’m not ready to forget,” I said quietly, setting my bag down. “But maybe… maybe I’m willing to see if there’s something still left to hold onto.”

Relief washed over him as he stepped forward. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I swear, Athena. No more anger. No more shouting. I just want us to be okay again.”

“One last chance, Lysander,” I said, my voice low but firm. “That’s all I can give.”

He pulled me into his arms before I could finish the sentence. And for a moment, I let him. I let myself believe in peace.

For a while, it returned—at least on the surface. The house felt warmer. The air didn’t feel so heavy.
Lysander tried. He made breakfast. Left little notes by the sink. Brushed his fingers against mine like we were discovering each other all over again.
And for a brief time, I let myself lean into that illusion.

I smiled.

I laughed.

It worked. For a time, we found our rhythm again. He tried harder. So did I. Some nights, I cooked dinner. We watched movies together, shared quiet moments. There were soft kisses on the cheek, conversations that stretched into the night, and even the beginnings of plans for a weekend escape.

It felt like the man I’d once fallen for was trying earnestly, desperately to return.

But peace, I soon realized, could be a carefully crafted illusion. The cracks began to show when I started working overtime again, returning home long after dark. Around the third week back on the job, my hours stretched longer—not because I was avoiding him, but because I’d been reassigned to the Belmonte campaign, and deadlines loomed like storm clouds on the horizon that refused to lift.

Most nights, I arrived home past nine. My eyes burned with exhaustion, my voice barely more than a whisper, and my phone buzzed constantly—emails from executives, messages from CEOs requesting meetings with Eros. Lysander said he understood, and for a while, I let myself believe him.

“I’m just trying to catch up before the quarterly meeting,” I said one evening, slipping off my heels at the door and heading for the stairs, exhaustion pressing into my bones.

Lysander offered a tight smile, his eyes unreadable. “You sure it’s just work keeping you busy?”

I paused, hand resting on the banister. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he replied too quickly. “I’m just tired. Have you had dinner?”

“Yes, thank you,” I answered, soft but composed. “And you?”

“Team dinner.”

“Okay,” I said with a small nod and continued upstairs.

But then came the stares. The quiet accusations.

The mistrust that hovered between us like a ghost.

He started flinching whenever my phone would light up with notifications, watching me too closely whenever I smiled at a message or answered a call, his shoulders would stiffen.

“I just worry about you,” he’d say.

But it wasn’t just worry. Beneath that concern simmered something possessive. Something volatile.

One Friday night, I came home around ten. Eros had offered me a ride—he was on his way to Villa Isadora, and my house was along the route. I was too tired to drive, and too drained to argue. I said yes.

As we pulled into the driveway, I noticed Lysander in the upstairs window, arms crossed, his figure stiff and shadowed against the dim light.

My heels clicked against the pavement as I stepped out of the car. Eros emerged from the driver’s side to stretch his legs. Under the streetlight, he gave me a small, tired smile and a casual wave before getting back in and driving off.

The moment I stepped through the door, it started.

“Athena,” Lysander called from the top of the stairs.

I looked up, trying to keep my tone light. “You’re still awake.”

“Who was that?” he asked, his voice flat but quivering underneath.

“Eros. He offered me a ride. I was too tired to drive,” I said calmly.

Lysander descended the stairs slowly. “You could’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you. It was late. He was heading home anyway—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Athena!” he exploded. “I saw the way he looked at you. The way you touched him!”

I flinched. “It’s not like that. Eros is just—”

“What? Your boss? Your friend? Or something more?” His voice cracked, rising. “Tell me the truth. Are you sleeping with him?”

His words stole the breath from my lungs. The air vanished from the room.

“How dare you,” I whispered, stunned. “After everything, after you begged me for another chance, this is what you throw at me? You think I touched him? Slept with him?”

“I saw it,” he muttered, pacing. “The way he looked at you. The way you smiled at him. Like you used to smile at me.”

My heart pounded—not with fear this time, but with disappointment so deep it felt like grief. “You said you were sorry. You swore things would be different.”

“Athena...”

“I watched my father hit my mother. I watched her stay,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “And I promised myself I would never live that life. But here I am. With a man I don’t even recognize anymore.”

“Athena, please—” he said, softer now, reaching for me.

“No.” I stepped back. “I forgave you once. I gave you a chance to change. And you shattered it. Threw it away like it meant nothing."