The door slammed shut, and silence wrapped itself around the penthouse like a noose.
Leon stood still.
The drink he poured moments ago trembled in his hand.
He lowered it slowly to the table, but his fingers wouldn't stop shaking. His breath hitched once—then again—and he backed away, the weight in his chest growing heavier with each step.
He stumbled into the living room.
The city lights spilled in from the windows, painting gold across the cold floor. Ayla's laugh echoed in his memory—soft, stubborn, full of life. He saw her there in flashes:
That night on the rooftop.
The way she used to argue like the world was listening.
Her eyes when she told him she trusted him.
He'd memorized them.
He could still hear her.
"I'll always find you again."
Leon fell onto the couch, elbows on knees, hands in his hair.
"Stop it," he muttered to himself.
But the memories didn't stop.
They drowned him.
Her fingers on his chest. Her whisper in his ear. Her goodbye.
A sob broke through his throat—guttural, bitter, uninvited. He hadn't cried since the day he was forced to accept she was gone. Not when he buried the clothes she left behind. Not when Kalen told him her body was never found. Not when the world moved on without her.
But now?
Now the grief came like a flood.
Tears rolled down his cheeks silently. His chest shook, his breathing ragged. He gripped the edges of the couch like it would keep him from falling apart.
"I didn't forget you," he whispered to no one. "I tried to live for you."
But in that moment, surrounded by silence and ghosts, Leon Moretti didn't feel like a man in love with Celeste Moreau.
He felt like a man still in love with a dead woman.