Cyrus stood in the shadows, silent as always. The kind of silence that didn't just linger—it pressed down on his shoulders like weight, like punishment.
His gaze found her before he even meant to look.
There she was.
Isabella.
Cradled softly in Kian's arms, her head resting against his chest like it belonged there. Like she felt safe there.
And maybe she did.
Cyrus didn't move. He barely breathed.
She looked so small in Kian's hold, so tired—but alive. And beautiful. Always beautiful. The moonlight kissed the edge of her cheekbone, lit up the delicate line of her nose. Her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted just slightly like she was whispering something he couldn't hear.
He wished he could hear.
He wished she was saying his name.
But she wasn't.
And the ache that bloomed in his chest felt slow and raw, like the kind of pain that doesn't come all at once—but rather builds until it drowns you.
That should've been him.
She should've come to him.
