Morning light crept through the windows, casting harsh gold lines across the penthouse floor. Caveen was slumped in an armchair, the empty whiskey bottle rolling near his feet. His shirt was half unbuttoned, his tie tossed on the floor, and the scent of alcohol still clung to the air.
A knock.
Firm. Twice.
He didn't move.
The door opened without waiting for permission.
Zev entered, dressed as sharply as ever in a charcoal suit, holding a sealed black folder. His expression was unreadable as he stepped over the chaos of the room.
"My prince," Zev said, voice clipped. "As ordered. Everything we could gather on Lysandra Moonwell's human life."
Caveen opened one eye, rubbed his temple, and slowly stood. The dizziness from last night still tugged at his limbs, but rage had a sobering quality.
"Put it down," he muttered.
Zev placed the folder on the glass coffee table and stepped back.
Caveen stared at it for a long beat. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled it open.
Inside was a neatly compiled stack of documents, photos, medical certifications, and a printed record of her activities.
A silence settled.
Zev began to speak, monotone. "After disappearing from the Moonwell estate, she resurfaced under an alias for six months before registering as a civilian healer. She enrolled at the Saint Merina Institute of Medical Sciences in the human realm, graduated with honors, and currently works at a small community clinic called HavenCare near the northern district."
He flipped a photo.
Lysandra, standing outside the clinic, hair tied back, laughing beside an elderly woman in a wheelchair.
"She has no official ties with the Moonwell estate anymore. She visits them twice a year at most—strictly for diplomatic events. She lives alone in a modest apartment downtown. No magic usage was reported for the past five years."
Zev looked toward his prince. "She's…trying to live as a human."
Caveen said nothing. His fingers lingered on a photo of her sitting at a café—smiling, radiant, alive in a world that no longer remembered the weight she once carried.
Another photo.
Lysandra and Elias, walking home. His arm loosely around her shoulders. Her eyes looking up at him with warmth Caveen once knew.
The crack echoed.
Caveen had slammed the file shut.
"She buried everything," he whispered, venom leaking into his voice. "The child. Me. Us."
Zev remained still, unjudging.
"She's not even mourning anymore."
"My prince," Zev began carefully, "perhaps this is her way of mourning. Or surviving."
Caveen's eyes turned dark again, the same darkness that surged the moment he saw her at the party.
"No. She made a choice. She traded everything for a lie."
He turned toward the window, muscles rigid, chest rising and falling like a storm barely held back.
> "If she thinks I'll ignore this—
She's wrong."
The hallway was quiet as Lysandra walked up the last flight of stairs to her apartment, her heels softly tapping against the stone steps. The sun had set long ago, and the night air clung to her skin, carrying the scent of city lights and blooming jasmine from the nearby park.
She paused briefly outside her door.
She had felt it.
A pulse. A presence.
His aura.
She knew it the moment she stepped into the building. She could lie to herself all she wanted, pretend the storm wasn't brewing—but her soul always recognized him. No matter how many years passed.
Lysandra unlocked her door with steady hands, but her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
She flicked the switch.
The light clicked on.
And there—seated casually on her couch like he belonged there—was Caveen.
Even after all these years, he still took her breath away. That sharp jawline, those eyes that carried the weight of two worlds, the smoldering beauty that had once made her feel safe, wanted, alive.
Now they only made her heart ache.
He said nothing at first, just stared at her.
His gaze—dark, unforgiving.
"I was expecting you," Lysandra said softly, setting her bag down. "Eventually, you'd come. To remind me of what I did. To punish me."
She took a step toward him, voice calm despite the tension in her limbs. "But suppress your aura, Caveen. We're in the human realm. I won't let you endanger this place—these people."
Caveen stood, his movement fluid, predatory. "You're enjoying yourself here," he said, tone sharp like broken glass. "Walking the streets. Laughing in cafés. Making friends. Being... happy."
His eyes narrowed.
"But you don't get to be happy, Lysandra. Not after what you did."
He stepped forward.
Lysandra instinctively stepped back.
Another step.
And another.
Until her back hit the wall.
Trapped.
Caveen's hands braced on either side of her head, boxing her in. His face was inches from hers now—his breath hot, trembling with rage and something else she didn't dare name.
"You think you can just bury the past?" he whispered, venom dripping from every word. "Move on? Pretend our child never existed?"
She didn't answer.
He moved closer, his lips crushing hers in an angry, bitter kiss.
Lysandra gasped, pushing at his chest, but he only pulled her tighter. The kiss deepened—fueled by fury, grief, and all the years lost between them.
She bit his lower lip.
Hard.
Blood touched her tongue.
He pulled back at last, his breath ragged, lips stained crimson.
His eyes met hers—no longer furious, just cold. Hollow. Distant.
"I will not let you be happy in this life," he said, voice hoarse. "You'll suffer. You'll reflect on what you've done. Every single day."
And then—without another word—Caveen turned and walked out, the door slamming shut behind him like the sound of a heart breaking.
Lysandra stood frozen for a moment, staring at the empty space where he had been.
Then, her knees gave out.
She sank to the floor, her hand covering her mouth, and a broken sob escaped her lips.
"He still hates me…"
The tears she had kept buried for so long came rushing out, and in that quiet apartment filled with echoes of the past, Lysandra wept.