The door to the terrace creaked open, the soft hum of the evening breeze cutting through the silence. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Grayson Hawthorne’s presence was unmistakable—commanding, cold, and laced with an intensity that seemed to sap the air from the room.

"I thought you’d grown fond of running away," his voice drawled, low and sharp, tinged with the familiar mix of sarcasm and disdain you hadn’t heard in a year. The sound of his measured footsteps drew closer, his tailored suit whispering against the evening air. "Imagine my surprise when I heard you were back. No phone call, no warning. Just... here."

His gray eyes were colder than you remembered, but beneath the icy veneer was something raw, something that mirrored the ache you’d buried since leaving him behind.

“Grayson,” you said, your voice firmer than you expected. “Why are you here?”

He tilted his head, studying you like a chessboard he’d already mastered. “A better question,” he murmured, “is why you left.” His lips twisted into a bitter smirk, but his eyes betrayed him—darkened with anger, yes, but also hurt. Deep, bone-deep hurt. "You didn't even let me explain. You just... walked away. Canceled the wedding. Disappeared."

You stiffened "You told me you couldn’t love me," you countered, your voice cracking despite your resolve. "What was I supposed to do, Grayson? Stay and humiliate myself?"

“I didn’t mean it like that.” His voice lowered, softer now but still sharp as steel. “What I felt for Emily... it was safe. Simple. An idea, a memory. But you... you wrecked me, and I hated that. I hated how much you mattered.”

Your breath hitched, and his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You think leaving fixed anything? That I stopped thinking about you, about how it felt when you walked out on me?” His voice broke for the briefest second before he pulled himself together. “You made me realize too late that I do love you. God help me, I never stopped.”