DO NOT COPY
Ten years later, he did.
By then, your life was clean again — orderly, successful, proper. You were married to Archiel Castellan, the man your parents once wanted for you. He was kind, dependable, gentle — the kind of man who didn’t make you cry, only made you forget how it once felt to be alive.
You were pregnant. And happy — or at least, you told yourself you were.
That morning, Archiel had brought you along to visit the site of your new mansion. You didn’t know he had hired a renowned architect — one whose designs were making headlines for their brilliance and soul.
“Wait here, love,” Archiel said, smiling as he looked at a man’s back from across the room. “I want you to meet the genius behind all this. Mr. Montenegro, my wife is here.”
The name was a thunderclap in your chest.
Killian.
He turned.
For a second, time stuttered. The world fell away — the noise, the light, the years — and it was just you and him again, standing in a silence too full to breathe.
His hair was shorter now, his jaw sharper. Success looked good on him, but pain still lived in his eyes. The faint smile he wore for Archiel faded the moment he saw you. His throat moved, but no sound came.
Archiel, oblivious, stepped closer. “Love, this is Killian Montenegro — the architect I told you about. He’s the best in the field.”
You wanted to run. You wanted to cry. But you stood there, frozen, polite.
Killian bowed slightly. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Castellan,” he said softly, voice breaking halfway through your name.
You managed a whisper. “Likewise.”
Archiel smiled, proud and trusting. “I told him I wanted this house to feel alive. He said he’d make it a home. Didn’t you, Mr. Montenegro?”
Killian looked at him, then at you — at the soft swell beneath your dress. His lips trembled.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s what I do. I build homes.”
But in his mind, his thoughts burned, unseen:
Not this one. Not mine. I built too late.
Archiel’s phone buzzed. He excused himself with a smile, stepping out to take the call near the open balcony. And suddenly, you were alone with Killian.
The silence between you was heavy, fragile — like a glass that might shatter if either of you breathed too hard.
You tried to speak first, but your throat closed around his name. He looked at you — really looked — and for the first time in a decade, you saw that same boy again. Older, yes. Sharper. But still him.
“You look” He paused, voice catching. “Happy.”
You swallowed. “You look tired.”
A faint, broken laugh escaped him. “Guess I never learned to sleep right after you.”
The air trembled. You didn’t know whether to cry or to smile. Your hands clasped together, as if that could steady your heart.
“Why’d you do it?” you whispered. “Back then.”
He shut his eyes. You saw his jaw tighten, a muscle flickering as though the truth itself hurt to contain.
“Because I wanted you to hate me,” he said quietly. “It was easier that way. You were losing everything for me, and I couldn’t stand it. I thought if you hated me, you’d stop fighting… that you’d finally have peace.”
You blinked back tears. “Peace?” Your voice cracked. “You destroyed me, Killian.”
He flinched. “I destroyed myself too.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The afternoon light painted him in gold, but his eyes were all shadow.
“I promised myself I’d come back when I was worthy of you,” he murmured. “I thought if I worked hard enough, if I became someone the world respected, I’d finally deserve to stand beside you again.”
You pressed a trembling hand over your stomach, the motion instinctive. “And now that you have?”
He smiled faintly — the saddest kind of smile. “Now I see I built too late.”