That night, they gave me a guest room that felt more like a forgotten storage space. It smelled faintly of dust and old polish. Even the staff avoided looking at me directly, like I was something that didn’t quite belong in the present anymore.
Like I had already died somewhere and just forgotten to leave.
Later, I was called.
The younger brother.
Leonardo Lancaster.
He was waiting inside the old observatory, dressed in black, half-hidden in shadows. Moonlight slid across the glass floor, breaking into sharp reflections around him.
I expected softness. Weakness. Someone easy to read.
Instead, he moved like something sharp and alert—measuring me the moment I stepped inside.
“So this is her,” he said quietly. “The wife who ran away.”
My throat tightened, but I didn’t answer.
His eyes stayed on me. Heavy. Unfriendly.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low, almost dangerous, “did you come here for forgiveness… or for revenge?”
My fingers curled slightly, stopping myself from shaking.
He let out a small, humorless laugh and turned toward the glass window instead. The moonlight cut across him like broken silver.
“Go back,” he said. “Come again only when your divorce is done.”