Leon drove aimlessly for nearly an hour after leaving Rhea's apartment, unable to quiet the pounding of his heart.
Ruins of an old fire.
No memory.
The same day Ayla vanished.
Ayla.
His chest tightened painfully at the name. He had buried that wound so deep, even he had nearly forgotten how raw it once was.
She had been everything to him — a fierce, beautiful, impossible flame who burned through every rule he'd ever built for himself. He'd loved her recklessly, kept her a secret, even when the world would never have accepted them.
They had been together the night of the fire.
He could still smell the smoke, feel the weight of her hand clutching his as they tried to run, the building collapsing around them. He had been knocked out in the chaos, dragged from the wreckage by rescuers — but Ayla had never been found.
They'd told him she was gone. That no one could have survived.
He'd let himself believe it, because the alternative — that she had survived but left him — was too unbearable to live with.
Now, listening to Rhea's description, seeing the dates align, his stomach dropped.
The woman with no memories, the scars, the lost identity — what if that was Ayla?
What if she hadn't left him?
What if she had been ripped away, built into someone else by force, never even knowing who she truly was?
Leon's hands trembled on the steering wheel, rage and grief clashing inside him.
Celeste.
He had hated her for the lie. Pushed her away.
But what if she wasn't a liar at all?
What if she was the one person he would have burned the world to find?
Leon pulled to the side of the road, burying his face in his hands. He needed to know. There could be no mistakes.
He would go through every medical file, every DNA report, dig up anything and everything that could prove the truth.
Because if Celeste was Ayla — if the woman he had loved and mourned was alive and right under his nose — then Leon would never let her go again.