She gave him a playful nudge. "And don't you forget it, son. Now go on. And, I like Angela. Just know it."
Lyan nodded, her words giving him a renewed sense of resolve. "Thanks, Mrs. Jones. I mean it."
As he turned to head upstairs, he glanced back at her one last time, a small, genuine smile breaking through the stress etched on his face. Mrs Jones cleaned the table and headed to her room.
Lyan entered his room and found Tania waiting for him dressed in a silky nightgown. She looked up as he entered, her lips curving into a sly, almost mocking smile.
Lyan stopped in the doorway,
"Tania," he said flatly, "what are you doing in here?"
She tilted her head slightly, her smile deepening, as if his tone only entertained her. "Where else would I sleep? Your guest room is cold, and I figured this was still my place, too."
Lyan didn't say a word—not even a glance in her direction. He walked to the wardrobe, pulled out a warm blanket, and headed toward the door.
"Lyan, come back here!" Tania's voice cracked slightly, chasing him as he moved. "Do you really hate me that much—that you'd rather sleep on the couch in your own house?"
He paused, hand on the door handle, his back still turned. Silence filled the space between them like a wall neither of them could scale.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low—measured, but final.
"Tania," he said, "I don't hate you. But I don't love you either. And honestly... I've said that enough times. I don't see the point in repeating it."
He opened the door, paused for just a second to meet her eyes—blank, distant—before adding, "You can stay the night. Since that's what you've already chosen."
And with that, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
She looked around the master bedroom, the luxury of the space suddenly feeling hollow.
"This is all because of her," she muttered under her breath, voice thick with bitterness. "He didn't love me—I knew that. But he wasn't this... distant."
She grabbed a pillow and hurled it across the room. Then another. The silence that followed was louder than the impact. Her hands trembled from rage and rejection.
She hated how it made her feel. Vulnerable. Replaced.
She clenched her fists. No. I won't be tossed aside like this. She thinks she's better than me? She'll see. I don't lose. she'll regret to have ever crossed me."
Angela stirred in the guest room.
Sleep had been elusive—too many words left unsaid, too many emotions flickering like static beneath her skin. She reached for her phone, the screen casting a soft glow in the dim room. 12:00 AM.
She sighed, pushing the blankets aside and sitting up. Maybe some water will help.
Moving quietly, she slipped out of bed and opened the door slowly, careful not to let it creak. The house was too silent.
Her bare feet padded softly against the cool floor as she made her way to the kitchen.
The fridge opened with a soft hum.
She grabbed a bottle of water, took a few steady sips, then stood there for a moment—lost in thought, her fingers resting lightly on the handle.
That's when she noticed it. A warm, subtle glow seeped from beneath the study door down the hall.
Her brow furrowed. "Who would still be up?"
She listened for any sound—voices, movement—but the house remained hushed.
Her hand lingered on the bottle as she weighed her next move.
"Isn't he supposed to be in bed?" she thought. "With her."
Curiosity tugged at her, stronger than her hesitation. She gently closed the fridge and set the bottle on the counter. With careful steps, she moved towards study.
She reached the slightly ajar door and paused.
Through the narrow opening, she could see Lyan—half reclining on the couch, laptop balanced on his lap, papers spread out beside him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly tousled, eyes focused on whatever was in front of him.
He looked tired—but composed. Distracted—but still entirely himself.
Angela blinked, surprised by how easily he seemed to be busy when his fiancée is alone in the bedroom.
"He's even handsome when he's brooding," she thought, then caught herself with a faint, amused smile.
She cleared her throat softly, unsure of whether to interrupt him or simply leave him to his thoughts. She gently knocked once—not loud enough to startle him, just enough to announce herself.
"Working late?" she asked softly. "Didn't expect to find you here. I figured you'd be... upstairs."
Lyan didn't look up right away, though he recognized the voice the moment it crossed his ears. He finally shut the laptop, setting it aside.
When he met her gaze, there was a weariness in his eyes, the kind that ran deeper than just being tired.
"I prefer the couch tonight," he said simply. "Peaceful here."
Angela stepped inside, leaning lightly against the doorframe. "Peaceful," she echoed. "Doesn't look peaceful from upstairs. Your fiancé is probably crying between the bedsheets!"
"Angela," he said, his voice calm but guarded. "I didn't expect you to be up this late. What are you doing here?"
"I heard you... Her." You might need to check on her." She responded.
A beat passed. Then, a faint smirk tugged at Lyan's mouth, the first hint of humor she'd seen in hours.
"I didn't know yelling counted as a lullaby," he said dryly.
Angela chuckled under her breath, then sobered. "She's really upset."
"She usually is," he replied, shrugging. "This time, she has a reason. That's new."
Angela hesitated before moving closer, crossing the room slowly. "Mind if I sit?" she asked.
He gestured to the armchair across from him. "Of course not."
Angela lowered herself into the chair, tucking her legs to the side. She looked at him for a long moment before speaking again.
"Couldn't sleep. And... came down to have some water. But when I saw the lights here on, trust me, I thought I was going to catch a thief!"
Lyan's lips twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible smile at Angela's lighthearted response, though his eyes remained steady on her. He adjusted his position on the couch, trying to seem nonchalant.
"A thief, huh?" he replied, his voice low but with a hint of amusement. "Well, Maybe I am the thief! I guess I'm not that dangerous."
"Trust me; you are dangerous! Extremely dangerous." She said in a teasing voice.
Lyan raised an eyebrow at Angela's playful retort, but the smile that tugged at his lips lingered longer than it should have. Her tone had been teasing, yes—but there was something else.
"Dangerous?" he echoed, leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. "And what makes you think that, Angela?"
Angela tilted her head, her lips curving into a soft smile—half amusement, half confession. She spun the chair gently, once, the hem of her robe brushing lightly against her ankle as she moved. Still, her gaze didn't waver from his.
"Oh, don't play coy," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know exactly what I mean. You're dangerous because you have this… pull. This way about you. Stealing girls' hearts! The kind that sneaks past all your defenses, even the ones you swore were bulletproof."
Lyan's smile faltered just enough to betray the hit. Her words didn't just flirt—they saw him.
She leaned back slightly, folding one leg over the other. "You steal hearts, Lyan. And the worst part? You don't even realize when you've done it."
He looked at her then—not with amusement, not with irony. He knew how to deflect. He was good at it. But right now, he just couldn't. Lyan could lie to everyone else but not to himself. He would act childish, completely free. He showed her the side he never showed anyone else.
He cleared his throat, voice low. "And how would you know that?" he asked, though the question came out softer than intended. "Unless..."
Angela raised a brow, her expression unreadable. "Unless what?"
"Unless I've already stolen yours," he finished, a crooked smile playing at his lips—as if the idea terrified and thrilled him all at once.
Angela said nothing at first. She held his gaze, her eyes flicking from his mouth back to his eyes, like she was trying to read something he hadn't said yet. Then, slowly, her smile faded.
"I never said it was mine to steal," she whispered. her voice barely audible. "There's someone upstairs, probably crying for your attention."
Lyan heard the words, but it was the way she said them that caught him—the way her voice dipped, how her eyes didn't quite match the lie she tried to tell.
He didn't move for a second. Just watched her. Studied her.
Then he stood—slowly, deliberately—crossing the short distance between them. She didn't flinch, didn't step away. If anything, she leaned into the tension, her chin lifting ever so slightly, like she was daring herself not to run.
He stopped in front of her, close enough to hear the breath she held in her chest.
"Are you sure it's not yours?" he asked softly, hearing her heartbeat.