Trey's POV
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving only the echo of her heels fading down the hall. I stayed seated, the sketch still between my hands. The paper was thin but felt heavier than steel. Her scent, faint perfume and rain, lingered in the air, clashing with the bitterness rising in my throat.
She had called me conceited. Arrogant. She lowered her eyes, raised her chin, and sliced me open with words I could not block. My fist tightened around the edge of the paper until it trembled. I forced myself not to crumple it. Instead, I stared at the drawing again, the childish lines, the comic style bubbles, the fantasy wedding arch.
There it was: fifteen year old Amara's dream frozen in graphite. Me in a tux, her in a dress too big for her small shoulders. And in the corner, the bubble she had drawn for me: "I'm sorry for being a jerk."
My chest pulled tight. Even at fifteen she had written the words I never said.
I read the lines over and over until the ink blurred. She had apologized to me in the kitchen; I had thrown her words back at her. Yet here, in this stupid drawing, I saw the truth I had buried under years of self control. She had been a kid trying to believe in something, and I had been the one who made her stop.
Memory slid in like a blade: my father's study, dark wood and whiskey, his hand clamping my shoulder.
"Don't be a fool, Trey."
"She's just a kid," I had argued.
"A kid now. A woman soon. And if you're not careful, she'll be your ruin."
"She's different," I had tried to say.
"She's the maid's daughter," he had snapped. "In this world there will always be boundaries between the lower class and the elite. Status protects us. That age gap alone would destroy you. What would people say? That you preyed on a servant girl? That you threw away your legacy for infatuation?"
I had swallowed those words, built my armor from them, and delivered the speech that crushed her on her birthday. I told myself it was protection, discipline, foresight. I told myself she would forget me.
But she had not. Neither had I.
Ten years later, I was supposed to be marrying Pauline. The bride. The flawless match my father had envisioned. Everything about her, from her family name to her poise, was designed to safeguard my position, to fortify the empire. Yet as I sat at this table, the sketch trembling between my fingers, all I could see was Amara's face this morning, crimson, defiant, calling me conceited while her eyes flashed like she still held my secrets.
And then she said it: "I am happy with my boyfriend."
The words hit harder than I expected. They should have been harmless, just a statement anyone could say about their life. But for me, it was like a blade sliding beneath my skin, invisible yet painfully sharp. A boyfriend. Amara had a boyfriend. A man who woke up to her sleepy smile. A man who got to hold her hand whenever he wanted to. A man who made her laugh without even trying.
Someone who felt her warmth every day, someone who knew she bit her lip when she was nervous and that she hated mornings. Someone who had the right to touch her without hesitating, without fear, without guilt. Someone who was allowed to love her.
It should not matter. She was free to live, to love, to be happy with whoever she chose. I had no claim on her. I was just the man she had to work with. The man who kept his feelings buried so deep that even he sometimes forgot they were there. Yet those five simple words lit every buried feeling on fire again.
I clenched my jaw and nodded like it did not affect me at all. I forced a smile I did not feel, swallowing every sharp emotion clawing up my throat. I told myself it was better this way. Better she had someone who was not me. Someone who would not hurt her.
Because I had been warned. I had been told that loving me would ruin her.
So I built walls around my heart and convinced myself they were for her protection. I pretended to be content watching from a distance, telling myself I did not need more than her presence in the same room.
But hearing the word boyfriend from her lips made my chest tighten painfully.
Pauline was the smart choice, the necessary choice. But the more I stared at the comic bubbles, the more the lines blurred between duty and desire. I could not stop imagining Amara at my wedding, not coordinating it but standing across from me, eyes locked on mine, not as a worker but as my equal.
My fists curled until my knuckles went white. Across the table, her drawing lay open, a time capsule of everything we were not allowed to be. And all I could think of was how much it bothered me, that even at the edge of my perfect marriage to Pauline, Amara could still get under my skin with a defiant glare, a sketch from ten years ago, and a boyfriend who was not me.
I pressed my thumb against the sketch, tracing the curve of her name where she had written it at the bottom. Ten years. Ten years of trying to be the perfect heir, the CEO who never bent. And one woman still had the power to throw it all off balance with a single glance.
Outside, rain struck the windows in hard, even lines. I folded the sketch with care and slid it into my inner jacket pocket, over my heart. I did not know why I kept it, punishment or proof, but I knew one thing: no matter how many walls I built, Amara Castillo was no longer a girl in the servants' wing. And I no longer had the excuse of pretending not to see her.
But still, I would never cross that line. I told myself that since the day I broke her heart. No matter how many times she looked at me with those eyes, no matter how much I wanted to pull her back into my orbit, I would never make her childhood dream come true. Not for her sake. Not for mine. Not while I still owed my father the image of the perfect heir.
I pushed back from the table and stood, the sketch still a weight inside my jacket. The rain outside struck the windows like a thousand tiny warnings, but I ignored it and walked out, my footsteps echoing down the marble hall. Every stride toward the study felt like walking into a battlefield I created myself.
In the corridor, the mansion smelled of polish and fresh coffee, but underneath it I caught something softer. Her perfume, drifting from the direction of the guest wing. The scent twisted inside me, and I tightened my fists until the ache reminded me who I was supposed to be.
My father's words played again in my head: "She'll be your ruin. She's the maid's daughter. That age gap alone would destroy you." For ten years I believed him. I built a life around him. And yet a single morning with her back under this roof had managed to rip every seam loose.
I was already in the study when the clock struck seven. My schedule was law, my composure nonnegotiable. The long table gleamed under the chandelier, folders and swatches lined up with military precision, wedding spreadsheets and floral blueprints fanned out like a battle plan. This was my domain, and tonight I decided to occupy it before anyone else arrived.
The door opened and Tessa came in first, mug of tea in hand, lounging into her usual armchair as if she owned the place. A few seconds later, Amara stepped in. Charcoal blouse crisp, hair pulled back so tight it looked like spun glass, she looked poised and professional, nothing like the girl who had once waited for me in the rose garden with a trembling voice and a heart too big for her chest. Except for the spark in her eyes when they flicked up and met mine.
I kept my seat at the head of the table, deliberately not looking at her hands or the faint flush still lingering on her cheeks. I set my phone face down, clasped my fingers, and said, "Let's begin."
For the next hour I rattled off demands, additions, and changes: doubled guest list, revised seating chart, extra valet service, the string quartet. I spoke in numbers and deadlines. She answered each one coolly, sliding new layouts toward me with a steady hand. Every time our fingers almost brushed, she pulled hers back with surgical precision.
Somewhere between the revised floral order and the security detail she stopped being the maid's daughter in my head and became the woman orchestrating my life with quiet authority. It unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
I leaned back at last, steepling my fingers. "I was expecting you to fall apart after this morning," I said, voice even but eyes fixed on hers.
"I'm here to work, Mr. Alvarez," she said, her tone clipped. "Not to reminisce about my teenage sketches."
Something flickered inside me, surprise, irritation, maybe even respect, but I buried it. "Let's see how long you can keep that up," I murmured.
She rose, folder in hand, and the scent of her perfume followed. I kept my eyes on the table, but inside I was already off balance again, the sketch a burning weight over my heart.
For a moment the only sounds were the scratch of her pen and the faint clink of Tessa's spoon in her mug. Then Amara glanced up from her folder, her gaze steady, voice smooth.
"Usually, Mr. Alvarez," she said, "I'd be coordinating directly with the bride. Shouldn't I be walking through these details with her?"
The question was polite on the surface, but it landed like a challenge, threading under my skin.
I arched an eyebrow, forcing my tone into calm steel. "Pauline's schedule is demanding," I said evenly. "I don't want to stress her with logistics. After the wedding she'll be my first priority, especially during our honeymoon phase."
I let the words hang, leaning back slightly. "She'll be busy with me, Amara. Pauline will be spending her entire time with me, all of it. That's how it should be." The emphasis landed like a weight between us, deliberate, almost daring her to react.
Her expression did not even flicker. No blush, no tremor. She simply turned a page in her planner and made another note, as if I told her the weather. The only sign she heard me at all was the tiniest lift of one brow.
The lack of reaction unsettled me more than any gasp could have.
I leaned back in my chair, eyes narrowing. "Pauline will be joining us soon," I added, voice low. "She's just returned from Paris. I'm sure you'll meet her before the week is out."
She looked up then, her eyes catching mine, cool, professional, a mirror of composure. "Of course," she said. "I'll be ready."
The corner of my mouth twitched. God, she was good at this. Too good. Ten years ago she would have flushed crimson at the mere mention of another woman. Now she could sit across from me, ink gliding across paper, spine straight, and not give me a single crack to wedge myself into.
And damn if that did not make me want to wedge myself in anyway.
Tessa glanced between us, eyes glinting like she could see the invisible current buzzing across the table. She slurped her tea loudly and muttered something about needing more sugar, then sauntered to the sideboard to give us privacy.
I kept my voice casual, but my fingers brushed the inner pocket of my jacket where the folded sketch burned like a secret. "Very well," I said at last. "Let's finalize the rest of the seating arrangements."
She nodded once, cool and composed. "Yes, Mr. Alvarez."
But as she bent over the plans again, a strand of her hair slipped loose and curved against her cheek. My hand tightened on the pen. All at once I wanted to reach across the table, tuck it behind her ear, ask her about this mysterious boyfriend, ask her why she had drawn me saying I'm sorry all those years ago.
Instead I said nothing, the taste of restraint sharp in my mouth, and watched as the woman I was supposed to have forgotten orchestrated my wedding like she owned the room.