Chapter 5
1502words
She approached silently, peering through the narrow opening.
Only a small desk lamp illuminated the room. Killian wasn't working. Instead of sitting behind his imposing desk, he occupied an armchair, holding something in his hands.
Gone was the commanding emperor. In his place sat a man curled slightly forward, radiating a vulnerability and loneliness she'd never witnessed. His entire being seemed wrapped in a profound melancholy.
Something twisted in Ilara's chest.
Her eyes fixed on the object in his hands.
A small, aged wooden box with its lid open.
Killian removed something from inside.
A photograph, yellowed and dog-eared with age.
In it, a radiant young woman smiled beside a handsome young man whose stiff expression couldn't hide the tenderness in his eyes. They sat on grass, her head on his shoulder, a wildflower held aloft in her hand.
Her and him, five years ago.
Killian's fingers traced her smiling face with gentle, almost desperate longing.
The photo wasn't all he'd kept.
She watched him carefully return the photo to the box.
She glimpsed other items inside.
A pressed wildflower, brown and brittle with age—the same one from the photograph.
A movie ticket stub, edges worn to illegibility except for the date and theater—their first date.
And more.
Item after item, small treasures from their brief, passionate history.
Ilara had convinced herself their relationship had been merely casual to him, that he'd never truly loved her.
She'd believed her departure had been a relief.
This belief had sustained her through countless lonely nights.
She'd told herself she had no regrets because he wasn't worth them anyway.
But this scene shattered all her carefully constructed defenses.
This man, during the five years she believed he'd forgotten her, had clung to these humble mementos, preserving each fragment of their shared past.
.
That night's discovery was a boulder dropped into still waters, creating ripples that refused to settle.
For the first time, her image of Killian began to crack.
In the days that followed, the atmosphere in the penthouse shifted subtly.
A fragile, unspoken truce emerged.
Killian's icy demeanor gradually thawed. He made awkward attempts to participate in Leo's life, though mostly he sat silently nearby, studying how Ilara fed their son, told bedtime stories, and defused tantrums with patient tenderness.
He was like a student cramming for an exam, desperately trying to absorb four years of missed lessons in days.
Ilara's defenses lowered too. She tacitly accepted his presence, even helping him navigate Leo's innocent questions like "why didn't Dad live with us before?"
They walked a tightrope together, carefully maintaining balance because they both recognized what lay below—their shared vulnerability named Leo.
That evening, after tucking Leo in, Ilara slipped quietly from his room.
In the living room, a single floor lamp cast soft amber light across the vast space.
Killian sat in the pool of light, nursing a whiskey with half-melted ice. He wasn't admiring the spectacular view, just sitting quietly, wrapped in solitude.
Ilara hesitated, initially planning to retreat to her room, but the memory of him with his box of treasures played in her mind like a film reel.
She approached and settled into an armchair a few feet from his.
Killian looked up. His eyes held none of their previous aggression—only something more complex.
Exhaustion. Confusion. And something almost like a plea.
"Is he asleep?" His voice was rough-edged.
"Yes."
Silence.
A heavy silence filled the vast room. Outside, city lights sparkled like a galaxy, yet no light reached the darkness between them.
Finally, Killian broke the silence.
He drained his glass in one swallow, as if seeking courage in the burn. He raised his eyes to hers, finally voicing the question that had haunted him for five years—the one he most needed yet feared to ask.
"Why?"
His voice was soft—not the thunderous demand from his office, but an almost humble plea.
"Ilara, please... why?"
That pain-soaked "why" pierced Ilara's heart. She knew he wasn't asking about Leo—he was asking about the original wound, the beginning of their tragedy.
The wooden box of memories gave her unexpected courage.
She no longer wanted to be the heartless woman who abandoned him, nor did she want to carry her burden of secrets alone.
"Do you really want to know?" She met his gaze directly.
"I need to know." His voice carried desperate intensity. "What did I do that made you prefer raising my child alone in that tiny apartment rather than coming back to me? Even once?"
"You did nothing wrong." Ilara shook her head with a bitter smile. "We were simply doomed from the start."
Killian's brows furrowed, confusion flashing across his face.
Ilara inhaled deeply, as if preparing to expel five years of humiliation. "Before asking me why, perhaps ask your stepmother what she did to 'the poor student who dared reach above her station.'"
"My stepmother?" Killian's expression transformed instantly. "What did she do?"
"She found me." Ilara's mind returned to that frigid afternoon that altered her life forever.
Her voice was detached, as if recounting someone else's tragedy. "The day before you planned to introduce me to your family. She arranged to meet me alone at a café."
"She didn't waste time with pleasantries—just pulled out her checkbook and slid it across the table."
Killian's breath caught. His knuckles whitened around his empty glass.
"She told me to name my price—any amount—if I'd leave you forever and vanish from your life." Ilara's eyes grew distant, seeing herself again in that café, frozen with shock.
"She... how could she..." Killian's voice shook with disbelief.
"Of course she would." Ilara's emotions surged, five years of resentment finally breaking through. "Did you ever really see me, Killian? You showered me with gifts but never noticed how I was struggling!"
"I told her I loved you, not your money. Want to know her response?" Ilara laughed bitterly. "She said love is the cheapest commodity in the world. That if I truly loved you, I'd walk away before dragging you down and making you a laughingstock among your peers!"
Killian surged to his feet, chest heaving.
His face flushed with shock and rage.
He opened his mouth but no words emerged.
His stepmother had always presented herself as refined and gracious; he couldn't reconcile that image with this cruelty.
"I refused her money. Told her I wouldn't leave," Ilara's voice rose, burning with remembered defiance. "That's when she showed her true colors."
"She threatened me. Said if I didn't comply, she'd make it impossible for my family to survive in New York. She knew everything—my parents' small grocery store, our financial struggles. Said she could make one call and leave us homeless."
"She promised I'd never work in architecture again. That she'd crush every dream I had into dust."
"Killian," Ilara rose and approached him, tears welling, "do you understand now? It wasn't that I didn't love you—it was that I couldn't. What weapons did I have against her power? Telling you wouldn't have fixed anything. Should I have forced you to choose between me and your family?"
"I refused to be the reason you lost everything! I wouldn't become your burden! And I couldn't let my family suffer because of my choices!"
She stood before him, chin raised despite her tears.
"So I left. The coward's way out, maybe. But the only path I could see."
"I thought my disappearance would reset everything. You'd forget me, marry someone suitable, and remain your family's golden son. I'd keep my dignity and protect my parents."
"That's the truth. That's your 'why.'"
After her confession, Ilara felt hollow, like a candle burned to nothing but wax.
The room fell deathly silent.
Killian stood frozen, like a man struck by lightning.
Color drained from his face, leaving it ashen.
His eyes, once burning with accusations, now held only a vast, terrible emptiness.
The narrative he'd clung to—that he'd been coldly abandoned for money and status, the bitter story that had fueled him through five years of hell—shattered completely.
She hadn't betrayed him.
His family—his trusted stepmother—had used the cruelest means to extinguish the only light in his life.
And he—brilliant, powerful, unstoppable Killian Davenport—had known nothing. Had been played for a fool.
He'd failed to protect her, left her to face threats alone, and then spent five years despising her for it.
Crushing remorse and self-loathing seized his heart like a vise, making breathing nearly impossible.
What had he done...
"I—" Killian's lips trembled. But his proud head, never before bowed to anyone, now felt impossibly heavy. He couldn't meet her tear-filled eyes.
His tall frame swayed dangerously. He clutched the sofa arm for support, barely keeping himself upright.
He stared at the woman before him—the woman he'd wounded so deeply yet who stood like a sapling refusing to break in a storm. Her face was pale, but her eyes remained clear despite the tears.
Guilt—a foreign emotion to him—crashed over him like an avalanche.
