CHAPTER 4
Rafael sat at the head of the long dining table, silver spoon poised halfway to his lips, his expression carved from stone, the same unreadable mask he had worn for years. Crystal chandeliers spilled warm golden light across polished mahogany, across plates of untouched food, across faces that belonged to blood and legacy. Yet none of it reached him.
None of it mattered.
“It’s been long since Amara visited us.”
His mother’s voice drifted through the room like background noise, but to Rafael it sounded distant… muffled… as though he were sinking underwater. His fingers tightened around the spoon.
Across the table, his father’s dark, piercing gaze remained fixed on him. The old man knew something was wrong.
Rafael avoided his eyes.
Neither of them knew.
Neither of them knew what happened to Amara. And Rafael had no idea how he would ever tell them.
“How is she doing?”
The spoon nearly slipped from his fingers.
His breath caught violently in his throat.
Amara.
Even hearing her name felt like someone had reached into his chest and wrapped icy fingers around his heart.
For a moment, the room blurred.
He quickly lowered his gaze, forcing his features into practiced indifference, though his pulse thundered so violently he was sure everyone could hear it.
Amara.
What the hell was he even doing here?
Sitting.
Eating.
Breathing.
When she—
No.
He clenched his jaw so hard pain shot through his skull.
He deserved every ounce of pain clawing through him.
Every harsh word he had ever thrown at her.
Every cruel glance.
Every time he had ignored her trembling voice.
Every tear he had pretended not to see.
He deserved worse.
