Amara finally calmed down. Seeing this, Maxwell loosened his hold and slowly sank into the chair beside her, his eyes never leaving her. The silence between them was heavy — thick with old pain and unspoken truths. He thought about how everything had spiraled into misunderstanding and madness.

“Leave,” Amara whispered.

“I won’t,” Max replied firmly.

“Are you just going to sit there and watch me?” she asked, her tone brittle.

“Yes,” Max said simply.

“Are you a pervert?” she shot back, her voice edged with bitterness.

“I’m your husband,” Max replied.

“We divorced eight years ago,” Amara reminded him coldly.

“I never signed the papers,” Max said.

“Just leave me alone,” Amara murmured.

“No,” Max answered.

“What are you thinking?” she asked after a long pause.

“Thinking about how stupid I am,” he said quietly.

“I knew that ten years ago,” Amara said flatly.

“Yeah, I know,” Max replied, a faint, broken smile touching his lips.

“You look old,” Amara remarked.

“Of course. Thinking of you made me old,” Max said. “You made me old.”

He’s still handsome, Amara thought, her gaze flickering over his face before she quickly looked away.

“Why are you so obsessed with me? Just say you hate me and leave. I know I deserve it — for what I did to them,” she said.

“They’re alive, Amara,” Max whispered.

“I’d rather believe my own eyes than my ears,” she said coldly.

“Fine. Suit yourself,” Max replied.

They stared at each other — expressionless, yet burning inside.

“Are you obsessed with me or something?” Amara asked again, her voice trembling between anger and exhaustion.

“Of course. Eight years,” Max said bitterly. “Did you just figure that out now?”

“Can’t you just leave?” she asked.

“I won’t,” Max repeated.

Then, to their surprise, the door creaked open. Standing there was a boy 

He looks just like him… I should have run when I had the chance, Amara thought, frozen in disbelief. Perhaps her exhaustion was playing tricks on her — or maybe the ghost of her past had finally taken form.

“What are you doing here?” Max demanded, his voice a mix of irritation and concern.

The boy looked up at him, sadness flickering in his gaze, mingled with a hint of fear.
“I heard screaming,” he said softly, his voice trembling. He tried to meet Amara’s eyes, but his own filled with tears.

“Leave now,” Max commanded.

“But… Dad—” the boy began, his voice breaking.

“Axel, leave!” Max shouted, his tone sharp and final.

Startled, the boy flinched and quickly closed the door behind him, the echo of it lingering like a wound.

Max exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. Then he turned to Amara, who watched him with silent fury. He reached for her hand.

“Let go of me,” she said, her voice cold. “Go to your bastard son.”

But Max didn’t release her. Instead, he tied her wrist gently but firmly to the bedpost.

“Great,” Amara said dryly, her lips curling in a bitter smile. “Now I can’t run. How convenient.”

Max knew what he had done was foolish, but he couldn't think of any other option. He glanced at her one last time before turning and leaving the room.