The hall buzzed with laughter and congratulatory toasts, but Caveen stood still, unmoving beside Madeline as she accepted more guests.
His hand, still tingling from where it had touched Lysandra's, curled into a tight fist.
He shouldn't have reacted. He shouldn't have felt anything. But the moment their eyes met—if only for a second—everything came rushing back.
Her scent.
Her tears.
Her betrayal.
Lysandra.
Alive. Blooming. In someone else's arms.
"Caveen?" Madeline's voice pulled him back. "You didn't eat much. Are you okay?"
He forced a smile, the kind he'd perfected in court meetings and blood-soaked negotiations. "I'm fine."
But he wasn't.
He walked away from her before she could press further, needing space—air—anything but this suffocating celebration.
He ended up in the private study, a glass of something strong in his hand and the doors locked behind him. His aura pulsed uncontrollably, cracking the wineglass before he even took a sip.
Why now?
Why her?
Why with him?
He remembered her soft smile as she leaned into Elias.
The way she had pulled her hand back—as if his touch burned.
As if he was a stranger.
But she had recognized him.
He knew it.
She lied to his face in that moment, and something inside him snapped.
He slammed the glass down. Shards flew. A piece nicked his palm, but he didn't care. He welcomed the sting—it was something real, unlike the numbness she left him with all those years ago.
He had died for her.
He had loved her with every cursed breath.
And she had chosen a different life… without him.
---
Outside the study, Madeline stood quietly near the door, her brow furrowed with worry. She had seen the way he looked at the girl in the garden. And though Caveen said nothing… her instincts whispered.
That wasn't just a guest.
She pushed the door open.
Caveen stood by the window, staring out into the night, his coat abandoned, sleeves rolled up, blood drying on a small cut along his palm.
"Were you going to pretend it didn't happen?" she asked calmly.
Caveen didn't turn.
"I don't know what you mean," he said, voice cold. Too cold.
Madeline stepped further in, shutting the door behind her. "The girl Lysandra. The one with Elias. You looked like you saw a ghost. You crushed the wineglass with your bare hand, Caveen."
Still, he said nothing.
"I know you, Caveen. You don't lose control like that unless something cuts deep."
That made him turn. His jaw was clenched, his eyes shadowed. "Drop it, Madeline."
"No." She folded her arms. "I'm your fiancée. I have the right to know."
He scoffed. "You're my fiancée can you just trust me?."
Madeline flinched, but kept her voice steady. "Is she the reason you never touched me all these months?"
A muscle in Caveen's jaw twitched.
"I don't need to explain myself," he said, but his voice had lost its sharpness. It was tired now—strained.
Madeline studied him. "Who is she?"
Caveen didn't answer.
Madeline swallowed, her voice barely audible. "Did you love her?"
Silence.
Then, with bitter finality, Caveen replied:
"I hate her."
The tires screeched faintly as Caveen's sleek black car came to a halt in front of the Madeline estate. Neither of them spoke. The silence between them was sharp—too loud.
"Goodnight," Madeline said stiffly as she stepped out of the car, not sparing him another glance.
Caveen didn't respond. The moment the door shut, he pulled away from the curb with a sharp turn, his grip on the wheel tight enough to crack bone.
He didn't go to the Landon mansion.
He didn't want to see anyone.
Instead, he drove to the high-rise unit he kept in case he want to be alone—a place he hadn't visited in years. A place he thought he'd never need again.
The door slammed behind him. The apartment was dark, lifeless. Just like the years he forced himself to forget.
Caveen strode toward the cabinet near the kitchen and yanked open the glass doors. Without hesitation, he grabbed a full bottle of whiskey—no glass, no ice. He pulled the cork with his teeth, then drank. The burning liquid seared his throat, but he welcomed the pain.
One gulp.
Two.
Three.
The entire bottle gone.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild with something between rage and regret.
She was here. Hiding in the human realm.
Lysandra Moonwell.
And she looked even more human than he remembered—fragile in her beauty, yet so distant. So unreachable. She had smiled beside another man. A man who didn't know what she had done.
Who didn't know the child she had sacrificed.
Caveen collapsed onto the couch, running a trembling hand through his hair.
His voice came out hoarse, low, sharp like a dagger.
"Zev," he said, activating his enchanted crystal communicator.
A few seconds passed before a crisp voice answered, "Yes, my prince?"
"I want a full report on Lysandra Moonwell—everything," Caveen ordered. "Where she's staying, who she's with, where she works. I want addresses, friends, records—I want it all. Tonight."
Zev hesitated. "But she is in the human realm—"
"I said now," Caveen snapped. "Use any contacts in the human realm. Pay what it takes."
"…Understood."
The crystal dimmed.
Caveen sat there in silence, staring blankly at the skyline outside the wide glass windows.
His heart thundered. His breath was uneven. And no matter how much he drank, the ache wouldn't leave.
He whispered to himself—maybe to the ghost of who she once was.
> "You dont have the right to be happy Lysandra.
I will destroy everything that makes you happy?"