Aria's POV
The apartment was quiet again.
I stood by the stove, stirring the noodles I had thrown together with a little sauce and some leftover vegetables. Nothing fancy. Just warm food after a long day. My favorite kind. I hummed softly to myself, the sound filling the space around me. The kitchen light made everything feel soft and golden. Peaceful, even.
The front door clicked.
I didn't turn around right away. But I heard the way it opened. Quick. Firm. That was Kael.
I smirked and called over my shoulder, "Look who finally came home. Mr. Mysterious himself."
No response. Typical.
I turned with a wooden spoon still in hand. He was pulling off his jacket, looking like he had just come from a magazine shoot instead of a regular day at work. That man really did walk around like the world owed him something.
"You know," I continued, leaning against the counter, "I think I get it now. Why you can afford this giant apartment and all the moody art on the walls. You're, like, secretly rich or something."
He said nothing. Just tossed his keys onto the table.
That didn't stop me.
"You didn't tell me you were the boss of a whole company. A real CEO," I said with a laugh. "I mean, it makes sense. You dress like a villain and speak like you're allergic to conversation. Classic CEO behavior."
I watched him. His face didn't move much. But something in his jaw twitched.
"You're so secretive. It's kind of impressive, honestly. I've been here for barely two days and I already talk more in five minutes than you do in a whole week."
Still no answer.
I rolled my eyes. "God, Kael. Do you even know how to relax? Or were you born stressed?"
Then he moved.
It was fast. He slammed his hand against the counter, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. I jumped, the spoon nearly slipping from my fingers.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, voice sharp. Cold. Like ice cracking beneath your feet.
I blinked. "Tell you what?"
He stepped closer. Not enough to scare me, but enough to make my heart beat a little faster.
"That you spent your whole life being passed around in foster care?" he said, eyes burning. "That you were in a mental facility for a year? Battling depression? That you can't even hold down a job without falling apart?"
My breath caught in my throat.
I didn't say anything.
His voice was lower now, but somehow even harsher. "You talk so much, Aria. All the time. About nonsense. About things that don't matter. But not once did you think to tell me that?"
The words hit me like a slap. Not just one. All of them. Like falling into a cold river.
I stared at him, my lips parting, but nothing came out.
How did he know?
Why did he know?
My chest felt tight. Like something was pressing down on it. I swallowed hard. My eyes started to sting.
I stood frozen in the kitchen, the warm light suddenly feeling too bright, too sharp against the ache blooming in my chest. My hands, still damp from cooking, trembled at my sides. It was like the air had turned heavy, pressing down on my lungs, making it hard to breathe. His words replayed in my head, over and over, each one cutting deeper than the last. Foster homes. Mental facility. Depression. Jobs I couldn't keep. He said them like they were dirty secrets, like I had hidden them on purpose just to play some kind of game. But they weren't secrets. They were just... my life. Messy, broken pieces I never had the strength to explain out loud. I wasn't ashamed. Not exactly. But hearing him say it like that, like a list of my failures, like evidence against me—it hurt. It hurt in that deep, quiet way. The kind that doesn't scream or show bruises but settles in your bones. I wanted to say something. I really did. But the words wouldn't come. My throat burned and my eyes blurred. I blinked fast, desperate not to let the tears fall in front of him. Not like this
He looked at me for a second longer. Then he turned away, brushing past me like I was made of air.
I didn't follow him.
I couldn't.
My eyes filled with tears. I dropped the spoon into the pot and turned off the stove. The food didn't matter anymore.
He knew.
All of it.
And he used it like a weapon.
I walked to my room slowly, quietly closing the door behind me. I sat on the edge of my bed, still wearing the same clothes I had cooked in. My fingers trembled in my lap.
For a long time, I just sat there in the dark.
And then I whispered to the room, so quietly even I could barely hear it,
"I didn't think it mattered."
I wiped at my cheeks furiously, angry at myself for crying and even angrier at him for making me feel like this. Who the hell did he think he was? Sitting there with his perfect suits and his cold eyes, throwing my past at me like a weapon. Like I asked for any of it. Like I chose to be tossed around from one broken home to another, like I wanted to feel crazy and alone and unwanted. He didn't know what it was like—what it felt like to be left behind over and over again. To be looked at like a problem. I dug my nails into my palms, my jaw clenched tight. He acted like I was keeping secrets, but he never once asked. He never cared enough to try. And now he wanted to play judge and jury? No. That wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he got to be angry, while I was the one who had been through hell. I trusted him—just a little—but I did. And he threw that in my face like I meant nothing. My chest ached with the kind of pain that sat heavy and hot, like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. And all I wanted to do was scream.