Chapter 4

Vlada sat alone at the table, spooning the last bit of bacon from her bowl. The silence was a small mercy—no eyes on her hands, no quiet tension pushing her to eat faster, straighter, quieter.

Her chair scraped softly against the marble as she stood, the sound oddly satisfying. The terrace door gave under her palms with a familiar heaviness, the glass cool even in the morning sun. She paused at the threshold, letting her eyes fall shut. A breath in. The faint scent of jasmine. The soft brush of wind curling around her ankles.

She stepped out.

Everything was exactly where it had always been—the iron chairs, the pale stone railing, even the crack in the third tile over. She stared at it, her chest tight with the kind of ache that doesn’t belong to the present.

So many evenings she’d stood here, watching the light drain from the sky while waiting for Lazare to come home. And still, part of her waited.

“It’s… amazing,” she whispered. The word didn’t feel quite right, but it was the best she could manage. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Mr. Ibañez insisted on keeping everything as it was,” came a voice from behind her—low, quiet, like it had been waiting for her too.

She turned, a real smile flickering across her face at the sight of him. “Alvaro. It’s good to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” His smile was as modest as ever, almost bashful.

Of course it was. That was Alvaro—never imposing, never asking for more than she could give. She remembered cold nights warmed only by his quiet company, the way he’d sit beside her without saying a word unless she needed one.

Staying up late with her isn't part of his job anymore yet he stayed. 

And though she stood now in the home that once was hers too, surrounded by his choices, his furniture, his lingering scent in the fabric of the cushions, her heart burned quietly beneath the surface. Alvaro knew. He always had.

The late morning sun clung to her shoulders, warming the bare skin above the thin black straps of her top. Vlada leaned into the terrace railing, arms resting lightly on the stone, her flip-flops tapping out a slow, absent rhythm against the tile. Below, the garden was still—frozen in time, just like everything else here.

Alvaro stood a few steps behind, his hands folded loosely in front of him. “Some of your things are still in here,” he said after a pause. “He wouldn’t let anyone touch them.”

Vlada’s fingers curled around the edge of the railing. She didn’t look at him, just exhaled, slow and controlled. “Of course he didn’t,” she muttered. Her gaze drifted to the horizon. “Did Nicole ever come here?”

Alvaro shook his head. “No. He kept this place for himself. Still comes back every now and then.”

She gave a short, amused breath through her nose—half a laugh, half disbelief. “Imagine that,” she said, turning just enough to catch his eye. “Your fiancé has a house you’ve never even stepped foot in. If that’s not a red flag waving in your face, I don’t know what is.”

The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the garden below. Vlada turned back to the view, her smile already gone.

Alvaro rubbed the back of his neck, glancing briefly at Vlada before speaking. “Miss Nicole has always been… uh, understanding of Lazare.” He stumbled slightly over the name—first names weren’t something he used lightly. It was a quiet exception Vlada once allowed, back when her name still legally sat beside Lazare’s. “I never heard her complain or demand things from him so I don't think her not stepping a foot in this house would concern her.”

Vlada listened in silence. There was no edge in her expression—just a calm distance. She only knew Nicole through flickering screens and glossy magazine spreads. Beautiful, polished, a face made for attention. But familiarity wouldn’t soften what she was about to do. It was easier, cleaner, to keep Nicole as a stranger.

“You two seem busy,” a voice interrupted, smooth and low.

They turned. Lazare stood at the entrance to the terrace, framed by morning light. He wore a jet-black Italian wool suit, sleek and fitted to his broad frame. The jacket was unbuttoned, just enough to show the soft charcoal turtleneck beneath—a bold deviation from the stiff collared shirts most men in his position would wear. His slacks broke just right above polished leather shoes, the whole look straddling the line between casual defiance and sharp authority. The silver glint of his watch peeked out as he adjusted his cuff, the kind of movement that seemed unintentional but wasn’t.

Vlada’s breath caught for just a second. He looked maddeningly put together—modern, clean, and fully aware of how good he looked.

Alvaro instinctively took a step back, a quiet shift of space and tension. He gave Lazare a respectful nod.

“Just catching up,” Vlada said, voice easy as she stepped toward him. Her hands moved to his jacket, fingers brushing over fabric that didn’t need fixing. The wool was warm, expensive to the touch. Lazare's Adam's apple shifted as he swallowed—barely noticeable, but she caught it. Her smile curved, knowing.

“Alvaro,” Lazare said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Get the car ready. I’ll be down in a few.”

The door clicked shut behind Alvaro.

And then Lazare pressed her back against the wall—slow, sure, possessive—and kissed her like he meant to erase the distance she’d let sit between them.

She met his mouth with the same desperate hunger, lips crashing against his as if trying to claim him. His hands slid down, gripping her backside firmly, pulling her closer. Her fingers tangled tightly in his hair, anchoring herself—because if she let go, she'd collapse right into the floor, undone by the way he kissed her like she was the only thing that mattered.

Their mouths moved with an almost frantic rhythm, each kiss more demanding than the last—until the sudden buzz of his phone vibrated from his front pocket, slicing through the moment.

Breathless, she pulled back, her chest rising and falling. “Answer it,” she murmured, voice hoarse with want.

He gave her one last kiss—quick, but full of promise—before reaching into his pocket.

“I’ll be back,” he said, voice low, eyes lingering on her.

She gave a slight nod, still catching her breath. As he walked away, she smoothed down her hair with shaky hands. Her lips throbbed, tingling from the force of their kiss. She bit down gently on the bottom one, tasting the faint sting.

Damn, she thought, pulse still racing.

Once her breathing evened out and the last tremors of heat cooled on her skin, a sharp urge bloomed inside her—find Lazare.

He was taking too long.

The hallway stretched ahead, silent and dim, the air thick with stillness. The mansion might be sprawling, but she moved through it with practiced ease. She knew exactly where Lazare usually took his business calls—if it was business… and not Nicole.

Bare shoulders prickled from the faint chill in the air as she padded across the cold marble floor, the delicate straps of her top slipping slightly as she moved. Her fingers absently pushed one back up. The silence was thick, unbroken—until a sharp voice echoed faintly from up ahead.

Lazare.

Frustrated. Irritated.

She slowed her pace, flipflops soft against the floor now, careful not to make a sound. The corridor leading to the library was empty, cast in the soft gold glow of overhead lights. She didn’t need to reach the door to hear him—his voice carried, firm and tight, around the corner.

As she reached the library's threshold, she paused, inching forward until she found a narrow gap in the door. Through it, she spotted him standing in front of the tall window, framed by soft shadows and muted light. One hand rested on his hip, the other clutched his phone, fingers tense.

She leaned in, pressing her ear gently to the door.

“I am dealing with it. I'm not sitting around here doing nothing,” Lazare said firmly. “I know, I know. I've already talked to Nicole about this and had explained my side. She hasn't contacted me since last night but I'm sure she'll understand. I'll handle it.”

Her lips parted slightly.

Nicole. Of course.

She couldn’t hear the other voice—it was muffled and indistinct—but she didn’t need to. The clipped, defensive tone Lazare used told her enough. It had to be his uncle, Lazarus. He was always there, always watching over Lazare like a hawk since the day his father passed.

And judging by how tense Lazare sounded, she was right.

“No, you don't need to find the woman in the picture. I'm telling you I'm handling it! Let me handle this on my own. It's my mess, I'll clean it. Just trust me on this one.”

A smile tugged at her lips. Not a soft one—but slow and sharp.

It was working.

Lazare was losing his grip. The pressure was mounting. And with Nicole’s family name hanging in the balance, he wouldn’t dare make a move that might taint their carefully polished image.

She could feel it in her bones.

He was cornered.

Exactly as she intended.

“Lazare!”

The voice sliced through the still hallway like a knife—sharp, familiar, impossible to mistake.

Her breath caught. Shit.

That voice. Cold and commanding, even when wrapped in silk. She’d heard it before—heard it cut her down with perfectly chosen words that left bruises beneath the skin.

Panic seized her chest. She spun, eyes scanning for anywhere—anywhere—to hide. But the hallway was mercilessly bare. Her foot snagged on the edge of the rug, and she stumbled just as the library door swung open.

Lazare caught her before she hit the floor, his hands gripping her arms, steadying her.

“Fuck, mom’s here,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting toward the end of the hall.

“I need to hide,” she whispered, the plea trembling at the edge of her voice. Her wide eyes searched his, frantic. She knew this moment would come—knew his mother would eventually appear like a ghost from the past. But not now. Not so soon.

Not like this.

Lazare opened his mouth to speak, but the footsteps were already too close. The voice followed, louder now, edged with suspicion.

“Who is this woman, Lazare?!”