Finally letting go

Lira Pov:

He didn’t come after me.

I heard his footsteps pause at the bedroom door, and for one foolish second, my breath caught in hope.

But all he did was open the door… and say nothing.

Like always.

So I pretended to sleep.

Like always.

My eyes burned, but I refused to cry.

Tears never moved him. Silence never cracked him. I had spent three years hoping my patience would earn his affection.

Three years loving a man who didn’t even look at me long enough to see it.

I thought my patience and silence would gradually earn his affection, and make him notice me. Seems it was just my wishful thinking.

I thought maybe, if I smiled enough, stayed quiet enough, didn’t ask for anything…

He might choose me on his own.

He never did.

The next morning, I left before he woke up, if he even slept. I didn’t care. I had a meeting with my director, a fitting for next week’s gala, and an interview to prep for. Real life. My life.

For once, I didn’t want to rush back to that house.

It never felt like home.

Just a high-end prison with marble floors and cold, perfect silence.

A lifeless house.

“Lira!” my assistant grinned when I walked into the studio lot. “The promo video from yesterday hit a million views already. And guess who’s trending?”

I offered her a smile, but it didn’t reach my eyes.

She didn’t notice. “Lira Hart and Leo Winters, fans are obsessed. They’re already shipping you. Poor thing you're already married."

Leo. My co-star. Tall, golden, charming in a way Damian had never been. He made it easy to smile on camera. Sometimes, off-camera too. 

He was everything Damian wasn't.

He has a way with his words, he is attentive and observant. He had everything I wanted in Damian, but somehow, my heart never beat for him. 

They say 'We accept the kind of love we think we deserve'. One thing I know for sure is, I don't deserve this unrequited love. I'm done waiting for someone who doesn't look my way.

I thought about how Damian hadn’t said a word about the scene I filmed last week, the one where Leo’s character kissed mine.

He just doesn't care.

Not even a flicker of reaction.

That night, I lay on the long velvet couch in the downstairs lounge, the one I used to curl up on while waiting for him to come home.

Now, I was there by choice.

Not because I was waiting.

But because I didn’t want to share a bed with a man who made me feel invisible.

I am Lira Hart. The most award winning Actress. A public figure. Every man's dream girl. Influencial, wealthy, and beautiful. 

Every man would die to have me in their life. To be with me, to stay by my side, and for me to notice them. Except the one man I wanted. Funny.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet.

No footsteps. No conversations. No warmth. Just walls and distance.

And suddenly, the house I'd always be happy to be in, is now one I want to get out of quickly. 

I used to think silence meant peace.

Now, it just meant we’d already stopped being anything at all.

I didn’t hate Damian.

I wasn’t sure I ever could.

But I was done waiting for him to see me.

Done holding my breath for a man who only looked at me when the cameras were watching.

This time, I’d be the one walking away.

And when I did...

I wouldn’t look back.

(Flashback: Three years ago)

Lira pov:

The first time I realized I was falling for Damian Blackwood…

he didn’t even look at me.

He was standing across the drawing room, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a glass of scotch, his expression unreadable as my father spoke about the engagement.

He hadn’t smiled.

He hadn’t flinched.

He just stood there, composed and cold, while my future was being decided for me.

And I couldn’t stop staring.

He was very handsome.

I thought marriage wouldn't be scary if it's him.

We’d met before, twice.

Once at a charity gala, where he’d nodded at me in passing.

Again, at a family gathering, where he’d shaken my hand and said, “Miss Hart.”

That was it.

And yet, when my father announced the arrangement, something in my chest fluttered like it belonged to someone else.

An engagement.

To him.

To Damian Blackwood.

The man that I fell for at first sight.

I was twenty-one. An actress with a thousand dreams. He was twenty-eight, already a CEO with a jawline as sharp as his suits and a voice that could silence a room.

Damian was every girl's dream guy.

There are articles about him everyday. He was one of the richest, if not, the richest youngest CEO. 

It wasn’t supposed to be about love.

Our fathers were old friends, bound by business, legacy, and the illusion of loyalty.

The merger would solidify everything.

And I was the price.

I hadn’t cried. Not then.

Instead, I watched him as he finally turned toward me, his gaze unreadable, as if I were a stranger being handed to him.

And still… I smiled.

Because I wanted him to want this.

I wanted to be chosen. Even if only for show.

The proposal happened three days later. In the Blackwood estate garden. At dusk.

There were no roses. No candles. No photographers.

Just a ring box he handed to me like it was a document to be signed.

“Do you have any objections?” he asked.

I could have said no.

I could have walked away.

But I looked at him, at his guarded eyes, the faint crease in his brow, the way his voice softened just slightly at the word objection. His eyes were crystal clear, like an ocean. I felt like I was drowning inside of it. 

And something in me whispered:

He’s not as cold as he looks. He just doesn’t know how to be warm.

I thought I would be able to soften him. To make him smile. To change him. But I was wrong.

So I slipped the ring on my own finger, and said,

“No. I don’t.”

I told myself I’d learn to live with him.

I never expected to love him.

But the first time he walked beside me at our engagement party, press photographers shouting, lights flashing, his hand barely grazing my waist.

He looked at me.

Not long. Not soft.

But enough to make me wonder if there was something real buried beneath all that ice. 

And that’s all it took.

Just one look.

The grand wedding was everything they said it would be: perfect dresses, polished speeches, endless toasts. But beneath the glittering chandeliers, I felt like a stranger wearing someone else’s skin.

He stood at the altar, all sharp lines and unreadable eyes. Damian Blackwood, my husband by name, but still a man I barely knew, and a man I already loved.

When the ceremony ended, I searched for his hand. For any sign that this, us, meant something more than a signature on paper.

He offered me a polite smile, cold and distant.

'Maybe he's shy or has social anxiety' I had thought.

That night, in the expansive master bedroom of the Blackwood mansion, I waited. 

And waited.

Hoping he’d reach out.

Hoping he’d want me.

Hoping this could be more than just a contract.

The bed was huge, too big for two people who didn’t belong together.

He climbed in late, barely acknowledging my presence.

His back faced me.

The silence between us was thick, suffocating.

Maybe if I fell asleep first, he’d feel less awkward.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

I lay there, my heart pounding louder than the ticking clock.

I wanted to ask why.

Why had our families forced us into this?

Why did he refuse to look at me?

Why did I still believe that someday he might love me.

When morning came, Damian was already dressed, gone before the sun fully rose.

I was alone.

Not just in the room, but in the marriage.

And I realized then: I w

asn’t the bride of a love story.

I was the pawn in a game neither of us wanted to play.

That was when I realised, this was all for show.

But even so, I whispered into the empty room,

I will make you see me. One day.