Chapter 3

Akira Rodrigo Salamanca never expected to live this long.

Not after the accident. Not after the look on Knile Monte Forteros’s face when he saw Cayleigh’s broken body on that blood-slicked hospital bed. Not after the deal was struck in that cold, steel-lined interrogation room where Akira surrendered his future, his pride, and any dream of redemption.

He had accepted death.

But instead, he was handed a sentence worse than prison: servitude to the woman he destroyed.

At first, he believed it was fair.

For weeks, he walked like a ghost behind her, tending to her like she was made of cracked porcelain. He bathed her when the nurses left. Dressed her when she couldn’t bear to let anyone else touch her. He changed her bandages with trembling hands, fighting the nausea in his throat each time he saw the scars he caused.

He had memorized every inch of her pain.

And somewhere along the way... he began to memorize her too.

Not as the victim.

Not as the heiress in high heels and pearls.

But as Cayleigh. Just Cayleigh. Fractured. Proud. Breathing.

She didn’t speak much at first. He understood. He didn’t expect forgiveness. He didn’t even hope for civility. But she surprised him—because even in her silence, she allowed him near.

And that was enough.

He carried her when the chair was too much. Cooked her meals, even when she didn’t eat. Sat by the window when she cried in her sleep, waiting with a glass of water and soft words she never acknowledged.

And then, one night, she reached for his hand.

Just that. No words. No commands.

And he gave it.

He hadn’t let go since.

But Aki knew something was shifting—dangerously.

It started subtly. The way her fingers lingered when he helped her into the bath. The way her laughter began to crack through the walls she’d built. The way she looked at him—not with hatred, but recognition. As though, for the first time, she wasn’t just seeing her aide. She was seeing him.

And every time her eyes locked with his, Aki felt something foreign bloom in his chest—tender and trembling.

Hope.

No. He shut it down every time. You don’t get to hope. Not with her.

Because if he allowed himself to feel anything more than guilt, then everything—everything—he was doing became a betrayal. Of his mistake. Of her pain. Of Knile.

Especially Knile.

Aki saw the way Knile looked at him now.

He didn’t speak much, not to him. But his presence alone was a warning. Every time he entered the Montemayor estate, it was like the air thickened. Like all warmth drained from the room. He never yelled. Never confronted. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—cut sharper than any blade.

Aki could feel it in the pauses. The lingering stares. The quiet footsteps down the hall when Cayleigh laughed.

He was watching.

Waiting.

Possessive.

And Aki couldn’t blame him.

He was the fiancé. The king. The man who once held Cayleigh’s future in his hands.

And Aki… Aki was the one who ruined it.

But even knowing that, even buried under guilt, Aki still found himself waiting for her voice each morning. Still stayed long after the nurses clocked out. Still found excuses to brush her hair, read her favorite books, push her gently through the garden just to see her face lit by sunlight again.

Every moment became dangerous.

Because every moment, he wanted more.

One evening, just after dinner, as the staff quietly cleared the dishes and the house fell into its usual hush, Cayleigh turned to him with that quietly stubborn look she wore so well.

“Do you hate me?”

The question hit harder than a slap.

His hand froze on her shoulder, where he was adjusting the blanket over her legs—well, what remained of them.

“W-What?” he asked, stunned.

“Do you hate me?” she repeated. “For keeping you here. For making you my... prisoner.”

Aki sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. “Cayleigh, I’m the one who asked to stay.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

He looked at her. Really looked at her. Her face wasn’t bitter. Not angry. Just tired. Sad. Vulnerable in a way that tore something inside him.

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t hate you.”

She nodded, turning her face toward the window.

The stars were out, clear and gentle.

He should have left it there.

But he didn’t.

“I don’t hate you, Cayleigh. I…” he swallowed, then looked down at his hands, “I’m afraid of how little I hate you.”

Her breath caught.

And the silence between them changed again.

Not broken.

Just charged.

Later that night, Aki stood by the garden gate, alone, running a trembling hand through his hair.

He had crossed a line.

Maybe not with words. Not with touch.

But inside, he had stepped into a place he had no right to be.

And he could feel it now.

The air had changed.

Knile would know soon—if he didn’t already.

And when that happened, this fragile, impossible thing between them?

Would either ignite...

…or burn them all down.

Later that night, Aki stood by the garden gate, alone, running a trembling hand through his hair.

The wind was gentle, brushing the tops of the roses Cayleigh once planted herself. He could still smell the faint citrus and jasmine she used to wear, lingering like a ghost in the quiet air. Somewhere inside the estate, the lights were dimming. She was probably in bed now—alone, but not cold anymore.

And that thought terrified him.

He had crossed a line.

Maybe not with his lips. Not with his hands. But in his heart.

Because somewhere along the way, between the apologies and the silences, he had begun to fall for her.

Not out of guilt.

Not out of penance.

But because she was beautiful—still beautiful—despite the pain, despite the anger. Because she didn’t pretend to be okay. Because she let him see her weak, and he wanted nothing more than to be strong enough for them both.

But it was wrong.

She belonged to another man. A powerful one. A man who had given her a future before Aki took it all away.

And Aki? He was the enemy dressed in humility.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Knile acted.

And when he did... it wouldn't be a warning.

It would be war.