Trey's POV
The door shut behind me with a thud too loud for what it was. It reverberated in my chest like a cannon, cracking open places I had sealed years ago.
I did not look back. I could not. My feet dragged me down the corridor, heavy as iron, every step a chain pulling me deeper. The staff lowered their heads as I passed, whispers dying on their tongues. To them I was untouchable, unmoved, the master of this house.
Inside, I was burning.
She was still in me, the scent of her clinging to my ruined suit, the tremor of her body against mine, the echo of her voice on my name. Worst of all was the ghost of a kiss I had not taken, searing the edges of my mouth like sin.
I made it to the study and slammed the door, shutting out the house, shutting out everything. Here, I did not have to play the role.
I went straight for the decanter. The whisky splashed unevenly, the glass rattling in my hand. The burn down my throat was harsh and punishing, but nowhere near enough to smother the ache.
I should have stopped. Walked away. But my body knew where it was going before I admitted it. To the drawer. To the key. To the thing I had sworn a hundred times I would destroy but never could.
The sketchbook.
I stared at it, the leather worn, her name pressed across the cover like a scar. I should have given it back the day the maid found it. I should have tossed it into the fire. Instead, I stole it like a coward, like a thief who could not let go. And I kept it.
Now it lay open under my hands, guilt clawing deep, my knuckles white as I flipped the first page.
Her art.
God. She was good. Too good. The lines were not just drawings. They breathed. The garden, the roses, the hills where we used to vanish from the weight of the house. Every page was alive, more vivid than memory.
And then, me.
My chest hollowed as I traced the lines with my eyes. Me in the library, head bent over a book. Me by the fire, hands in my pockets, half a smile tugging at my mouth.
And us.
Her and me together, on the hills, among the roses, in corners no one else saw. She had sketched what I never dared voice. She was not just the maid's daughter. Not just Tessa's friend. She was Amara. And I had wanted her. Even then.
I dropped my head into my hands, whisky burning again as I swallowed hard. She had been too young. Too pure. Too far out of reach in ways that were not hers to carry. They were mine. Father's rules. The world's rules.
But her drawings betrayed us both. She had seen me. Wanted me.
And I crushed it.
The sketchbook snapped shut under my palms, the leather shuddering like it might split. My fists curled on either side, the weight of denial pressing so hard I thought I would break with it.
I had told myself I was protecting her. Protecting both of us. Better for her to hate me, better for her to think she meant nothing. But staring at the truth in her sketches, I could not lie anymore.
I had not protected her.
I had broken her.
I shoved the book aside, but my hand lingered, trembling, as if warmth might seep through the pages. The whisky coiled in my gut, but the ache in my chest cut deeper.
And for the first time in years, I let myself picture it. Not Pauline in her diamonds. Not my father's arrangement.
Amara.
Her laughter spinning off the hills. Her hair brushing my shoulder in the library. Her hand slipping into mine when no one watched. All of it sketched by her, dreamed by her, carried in silence. And I had been blind.
Her scent still haunted me, warm cedar and that faint, maddening perfume. It clung to me like a ghost, reminding me of what I had almost done. Almost kissed her. Almost thrown it all away just to taste her once.
"What the hell are you doing?" I muttered into my palms, my voice raw.
But I knew.
I was falling again. For the one woman I had sworn to keep away. The maid's daughter. My sister's friend. My wedding planner. The girl who once confessed her heart while I shattered it.
I opened the sketchbook again. There it was, the page I had glimpsed at breakfast. Us, drawn in wedding clothes, silly comic bubbles hovering above. It should have been nothing, a joke. But in the way she had drawn me looking at her, it was not a joke.
It was a wish.
And I had been too much of a coward to see it.
Slowly, I closed the book, my palms flattening over the leather as if to hold her heart inside it. The study pressed in around me, heavy with shadows, heavy with blame.
I thought I had been the strong one all these years, the one holding the line. But staring at those pages, I finally understood.
I had not been protecting her.
I had only been protecting myself.
Sleep would not come. I tossed, turned, stared at the ceiling until the first smear of dawn lightened the curtains. My mind kept circling the same point, the same ghost. Amara's face, her voice, the heat of her against me. Every time I shut my eyes, she was there. By the time exhaustion finally dragged me under, it was closer to morning than night.
The shrill ring of my phone yanked me out of it. My hand fumbled across the nightstand, my pulse hammering. Too early. Way too early.
Dorothy.
I blinked at the screen, fighting the haze. Dorothy never called at this hour unless it was urgent. One of my executive assistants, the one I trusted with my personal affairs.
I thumbed it on. "What is it?" My voice came out rough, thick with sleep.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Alvarez," she rushed out, and I could hear the edge of worry in her tone. "I wouldn't disturb you unless it was serious. There's something you need to see immediately. I've already sent you the link."
That jolted me upright. "What kind of something?"
A beat of silence. "Photos. From last night."
Ice slid through my veins. I did not wait for more. I swung my legs off the bed, grabbed the phone tighter, and opened my email. The link loaded in a blink, and the first image hit me square in the chest.
Me.
Not in the boardroom. Not in the clean, polished image the world always saw. These were raw, unfiltered, stolen in the night.
Me carrying Amara in my arms.
Her head against my chest, my coat around her, my grip on her too tight, too telling. Frame after frame, like some vulture with a camera had followed us from the car to the door. Every angle screamed what I had not said aloud.
Mine.
I cursed under my breath, running a hand through my hair. The clock on the wall glowed past six. Too early for this. Too late to undo it.
Dorothy's voice crackled in my ear again, low and tense. "They're already circulating, sir. Blogs, a few tabloid sites. Nothing mainstream yet, but it's picking up fast."
My jaw locked. My heart pounded as I scrolled through another image. Amara's face was barely visible, her hair spilling against my arm. Vulnerable. Exposed.
And me, caught like a man who had already made his choice.
Whatever fog of sleeplessness had clung to me was gone in an instant. Gone, replaced by a hurricane of emotions I could not name. Rage. Panic. Something rawer and more dangerous. My pulse would not steady. My grip on the phone was so tight it hurt.
I did not waste another second. I showered fast, the water doing nothing to cool the fire under my skin. I dressed on autopilot, crisp shirt, jacket, tie, armor for a war I had not chosen. Every movement was clipped and ruthless, like I could scrub away the images burned into my head. But nothing erased them. Not the suit. Not the silence.
Her in my arms.
Me looking at her like she belonged there.
By the time I strode down the marble hall to the dining room, I was already in the middle of a terse call with Dorothy. My phone was pressed to my ear like a lifeline, my voice a low growl.
"Take it down. Every copy, every site. I don't care what you have to pay. Kill it before it spreads."
"Yes, sir," Dorothy said briskly. "But, Mr. Alvarez, you need a statement ready. The press is already circling."
"I'll handle the press," I bit out, adjusting my cufflinks, my jaw tight. "You just make sure those pictures disappear."
The double doors of the dining hall swung open and I stepped inside.
And froze.
Pauline was already there.
She turned when she heard me, a porcelain cup clutched in her hand, steam rising between us. It was not her polished poise that struck me. It was the fury flashing in her eyes. Controlled, icy, but unmistakable.
I had never seen her that angry with me, I thought, and for once the words felt too small.
Her gaze flicked to the phone in my hand, then back to my face. "So it's true," she said, her voice low and cutting.
For a heartbeat, the entire room seemed to hold its breath. The silver teapots gleamed, the chandeliers burned too bright, and all I could hear was the echo of her accusation. True.
I exhaled once through my nose, ending the call with Dorothy in a clipped tone. "Do it now." Then I slid the phone into my pocket, straightened my jacket, and met Pauline's stare head-on.
"Whatever you've heard," I said evenly, "I'll give the press the answer they need. You don't have to worry about scandal."
Her laugh was sharp and brittle. "Scandal? That's all you care about? Not the fact you were carrying her like—" Her words caught, venom curling at the edge of her tongue. "Like she meant something to you."
Her anger pressed against me, but instead of flinching, my chest burned hotter. Because the truth was she did mean something. Too much. More than I could admit here, in the open, with Pauline's eyes blazing into me.
I forced my voice steady. "It wasn't what you think. She wasn't alone with me. Tessa was there, and so was Adrian. They can both vouch for it."
Pauline's lips thinned, skeptical.
"They all drank too much," I continued sharply, cutting in before she could spit another accusation. "Amara included. She could barely walk on her own, and Adrian was in no state to help her. Someone had to carry her. That's all it was."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's all?"
"Yes," I ground out, my jaw tight. "She was Adrian's date, not mine. And I carried her because no one else could."
The words tasted like ash, even though they were the truth. My fists curled at my sides, because saying them aloud, Adrian's date, made my chest feel like it was caving in.
Pauline studied me in silence, her fury tempered but not gone. "If that's the story you'll feed the press, fine," she said coldly. "But make sure they believe it. Because if you slip, Trey, even once, it won't just be your reputation that burns. It'll be mine too."
"I'll handle it," I said again, my voice low and final.
But as her heels clicked away across the marble, all I could think about was Amara. How she would look if she saw the pictures herself. Whether she would believe Pauline's version, or the lie I would have to tell the world.
And whether she would see through me, straight to the truth I had been choking down for years.