The office emptied in ripples—chairs scraping, screens dimming into black mirrors.

Aria gathered her things in silence. Jasper and Dev waited by the door, trading tired jokes.

"Man, my brain's fried," Jasper groaned. "If I stare at a spreadsheet any longer, I'll start hallucinating."

"You coming, Aria?" Dev asked.

"Just a second." She moved slowly, buying time.

Usually, Chiara walked out with them, but she was still stuck in a meeting with Lina. The absence left the group off-balance. Aria followed the guys to the elevator, the ride down heavy with the fatigue of the day.

Ding.

The doors parted—and the quiet hit her first.

The lobby wasn't bustling. It was hushed. Suspended. The receptionist didn't offer her usual wave; she just gave a quick, tight nod and looked back at her screen.

Aria slowed. The space looked normal—marble, glass, evening light—but it felt wrong. The air was too thin.

"Strange vibe," Jasper muttered.

"Yeah." Dev glanced toward the far hall where a few people lingered, whispering.

Then Chiara and Lina appeared from the opposite corridor, files pressed to their chests.

"End of the world down here?" Jasper asked.

Chiara offered a thin smile. "Reporters. A whole crowd outside—cameras and all. Didn't stop to ask who for."

Jasper whistled low. "Well, that explains the creep-show."

Dev chuckled. "What do they even want? It's not like any of us are famous."

They laughed. Easy. Unaware.

The words landed like stones in Aria's chest. Her face remained neutral, a mask of polite disinterest, but inside, everything dropped.

They're here.

She managed a nod as her team split—Chiara and Lina back to the elevators, Jasper and Dev heading for the glass doors.

"Aria?" Dev called. "You coming?"

Her throat closed. If she walked out with them, the cameras would catch them too. Drag them into the mess.

"Forgot my phone upstairs," she lied, the words smooth and terrifyingly easy. "You guys go ahead."

They waved and left. Disappeared into the soft light near the doors.

Aria turned toward the stairwell, mind racing. Emergency exit? No—what if they were staked out there? Back upstairs? No—trapped.

The lobby thinned around her, leaving her stranded in the open.

Her hand shook as she pulled out her phone. The screen lit up with a stack of notifications. Three missed calls. Messages piling up. All from Reyhaan.

Maya told me you left home. Why didn't you tell me?

Stay in the office. Don't move.

Aria, please answer me.

Her throat burned. She pressed call. The dial tone dragged, scraping her nerves raw.

"Aria?"

The voice wasn't his.

She froze. "Reyhaan?"

"Lucian here," the voice clarified. Calm. Measured. "Reyhaan left his phone at the studio. I picked up."

The air punched out of her. "Oh. I—I thought..." She pressed her palm to her forehead. "Please tell him I wasn't ignoring him. I saw the messages too late."

"Aria," Lucian cut in, gentle enough to halt the spiral. "Are you alright?"

No. "I'm fine," she whispered.

"Stay safe, okay?"

She ended the call. A single breath. Then another.

She looked at the glass doors at the far end of the lobby. Beyond them, shadows shifted. Shapes. Movement.

The air inside felt too small. If she stayed, she was cornered. If she walked, she was exposed.

But waiting felt like suffocating.

She straightened her spine. The walk across the lobby felt ceremonial—a march toward a verdict.

This is it.

The doors slid apart.

Chaos exploded.

Light burst—white, sharp, blinding.

Aria flinched, eyes narrowing against the burn. Voices rose all at once, a wall of sound colliding with her.

"Are you the girl in the photo?" "How long have you been with him?" "Do you have anything to say?"

The questions struck like cold rain. Her body went rigid. Hands gripped her bag strap until her knuckles ached. She couldn't move. Couldn't answer.

The world warped. Faces loomed, indistinct and aggressive. The flashes seared afterimages into her vision.

You only care about yourself. Prove it that you've ever helped someone.

The old accusations from her past layered over the shouts of the present. They were looking at her like she was a thief. Like she was less.

Her breath quickened, shallow and useless. She pulled inward, searching for air, for silence.

Then—a hand.

Firm around her wrist. Pulling her forward.

Her pulse lurched, panic surging—until the scent hit her. Clean cedar. Smoke. Warmth.

Reyhaan.

He didn't speak. Didn't explain. He just angled his body between hers and the wall of cameras, a living shield.

Relief cracked through the haze. The world didn't quiet, but she did. His grip steadied her spine, loosened the knot in her throat enough for air to return. She let the pull guide her, step by step, moving through the crush.

The mob pressed in, shouting, flashing. But she kept her eyes down, cocooned in the invisible tether of his presence.

The car door opened—sharp, sudden. He ushered her inside.

The slam cut off the storm.

Darkness. Stillness. The muffled shouts fading behind the glass.

She sat there, chest heaving, the world still flashing inside her skull. But the warmth of his hand ghosted over her skin, and his scent filled the small space.

He had come for her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drive was silent—not the easy silence of before, but thick with unsaid words. The tension sharpened with every mile.

"What were you thinking?" His voice was low, sharp-edged. "Walking into that mess?"

She flinched. "I went to work. I needed to feel like I still had one."

"Do you know what that did to me?" He glanced at her, eyes lit by the dashboard glow, intense and angry. "When Maya called? I told you to stay—" His voice cracked. "I can't protect you if you keep stepping into fire."

"You don't get to decide that for me," she snapped, the adrenaline finally finding a voice.

"Someone has to, when you're not seeing the risk!"

"I don't want to be protected if it means disappearing!" She turned to him, trembling. "I can't just sit at home while they write a version of me I don't recognize."

"Don't I know that?" His voice softened, breaking. "You think I don't know what it's like to be rewritten?" He dragged a hand down his face. "If something happened to you because of me..."

The words stung. The distance between them felt endless.

"I know," she whispered. "But I need to live through this. Not hide from it."

The car stopped. Her building.

"Thank you," she murmured, reaching for the handle.

"I'm walking you up."

She nodded.

They walked in silence. The courtyard, the elevator, the corridor. Each step wound the tension tighter. A march toward something inevitable.

At her door, she lifted her hand to the bell.

The door swung open before she touched it.

A young man stood there—dark hair, sharp features, eyes bright with guarded curiosity. His lips curved faintly.

"You must be Aria."

The name struck her before the realization.

Ayaan.

Her breath caught. Her gaze shifted past his shoulder, and the room unfolded like a scene she wasn't prepared for.

Her parents were inside. But seated beside them on the sofa were Reyhaan's parents. His mother, elegant and composed. His father, grave.

Not strangers. Here. In her home.

Her hand stayed suspended. Behind her, Reyhaan stood steady but silent.

The truth cut sharp and unyielding.

She wasn't standing at her own door anymore. She was standing before his parents.