Chapter 11

The late afternoon sky glowed dimly, streaked with gold and amber light filtering through the tall glass windows of the gallery where Alyssa worked. The room was quiet — the kind of silence that carried the scent of oil paint, aged wood, and memory. She had just finished curating her newest exhibition — a collection themed around rebirth and loss — something that felt deeply, almost painfully, personal.

Her peace shattered when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind her.

Alyssa froze, her body instinctively tensing, like prey sensing danger before it appears. She turned slowly.

And there he was — Rafael.

He looked immaculate as always in his tailored suit, but his face was weary, shadowed by something unspoken. His eyes no longer held the usual cold sharpness; instead, there was something murkier — a blend of regret, pride, and intent.

“I didn’t expect you to come here,” Alyssa said softly, her voice calm but slightly trembling.

Rafael’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I just wanted to talk. Five minutes — that’s all I ask.”

Alyssa glanced at the watch on her wrist, pretending to consider. Then she walked to her desk. “Five minutes,” she agreed coolly. “After that, you won’t get another word from me.”

Rafael stepped closer, each footfall echoing in the quiet space. He stopped a few meters away, his gaze shifting toward the wall filled with framed paintings. Among them hung an old portrait — Alyssa’s father, the one man who still lived in her heart like a wound that never healed.

“I still have some of your father’s belongings,” Rafael began, voice low. “Paintings, his journals, and the land certificate in Lombardy he worked so hard to protect.”

Alyssa’s eyes snapped toward him. For a brief second, something flickered in them — shock, perhaps, or something dangerously close to hope.

“So you’ve been keeping them all this time,” she said coldly. “What for? To remind me that everything I love is still under your control?”

Rafael gave that same soft, calculated smile — the kind that never reached his eyes. “I didn’t keep them to hurt you, Alyssa. I just… waited for the right time to return them.”

Alyssa raised an eyebrow. “And you think now is the right time?”

He nodded slowly, his expression a mix of sincerity and manipulation. “I want to make things right. But…” His pause stretched, deliberate. “I also want something in return.”

Alyssa folded her arms, her tone sharpened. “What do you want?”

“A chance,” he said simply. “A chance to fix everything. To go back — to the way things were.”

The words hung in the air like perfume laced with poison.

Alyssa went silent. Her heartbeat quickened — not from longing, but from anger and disbelief.

“So that’s it?” she said finally, her voice cutting like glass. “You’re offering me my father’s legacy… if I come back to you?”

Rafael took another step forward. His voice softened — dangerously gentle. “I’m not forcing you. I’m just asking you to think about it. We could start over, Alyssa. I know I hurt you, but I can make it right. Everything — the assets, your family’s name, what your father left behind — it can all be yours again… if you’re mine again.”

Each word slipped into her chest like silk-wrapped blades.

Alyssa stared at him, expression unreadable, but her mind burned with fury. She knew this wasn’t redemption. It was manipulation dressed in nostalgia — a trap woven with the ghosts of love and loss.

Yet, the mention of her father made something inside her tremble. She could still remember his warm smile, his voice telling her to protect what truly matters. Those paintings weren’t just art — they were fragments of him, of home.

“Why now?” she whispered. “Why come to me after all this time, after everything you’ve done?”

Rafael’s eyes softened — or pretended to. “Because I still care. Because I can’t watch you stand beside another man and not think… it should have been me.”

Alyssa’s breath caught. The confession hit deeper than she wanted it to. She hated how familiar it felt — that same tone he used to use when she still believed in his love. But now she understood: it wasn’t love he wanted. It was control.

She stepped forward until they stood only a few feet apart. “You know what I realized, Rafael?” she said quietly, her voice trembling but fierce. “I once believed you loved me. But now I see… you only loved owning me.”

Rafael’s jaw clenched. “That’s not true—”

“It is true,” she cut him off sharply. “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t use my father’s memory as a bargaining chip.”

Silence.

For a fleeting moment, something like guilt flashed across his face. Then it was gone — replaced by that polished calmness he always wore when he wanted to win.

“Think about my offer,” he said at last. “I’ll wait for your answer until the end of the week.”

He turned toward the door, his cologne lingering like a ghost of the past.

But before leaving, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “You can hate me all you want, Alyssa. But everything you’re looking for — your father’s work, your family’s legacy — it’s still with me. Just like your past.”

The door closed softly behind him.

Silence reclaimed the gallery.

Alyssa stood frozen, her eyes glassy. Slowly, she turned toward her father’s portrait. The colors — once bright and alive — now seemed to blur behind her tears.

Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch the frame. “Dad…” she whispered. “What should I do?”

She knew the truth. Accepting Rafael’s offer meant betraying herself — everything she had rebuilt. But rejecting it meant losing the only pieces left of her father.

As daylight faded into night, the gallery lights flickered on, illuminating her reflection in the glass. Two versions of her stared back — one strong, defiant; the other fragile, longing for what once was.

And in that quiet clash, she understood — Rafael hadn’t come to make peace. He had come to test her resolve.

His offer wasn’t a gift. It was a toxin disguised as tenderness — the slow, suffocating kind of poison that seeps in through memory and old affection.

Alyssa took a deep breath, wiping her tears away. “Not again,” she murmured to herself. “I won’t let my old wounds decide my path.”