Page 104 of Love Unspoken

"I already told you how much to transfer based on the assessment. Now, you've just added to my workload—I have to go to the bank and send the excess back to you," she snapped.

"Amara—"

"We. Are. Done. Please stop texting me and asking me how I'm doing like we're friends because we're not," she continued in that emotionless voice of hers that she'd been using with me since that evening when we met at The Den. "And to answer your question, I'm not doing well, Lucas. I'm heartbroken. Having you continue to text me or try to call me just adds to my heartache. Until now, I had no choice but to speak with you so we could get sorted out on the townhouse and I could get my things. But that's done, so I'm going to tell you now that after I hang up, I will be blocking your number⁠—"

"No, Amara, don't do that." Fucking hell, she wanted me entirely out of her life. I couldn't fault her. I hurt her. I couldn't tell her I loved her; I just didn't know how I felt about her. The emotions Amara brought out were new and unique, different from anything I'd ever experienced with Kath; the only woman I had loved.

"Goodbye, Lucas," she whispered.

"Amara, I'm so sorry."

"I know, Lucas," she said so sincerely that it tore at me. "And so am I."

She hung up, and I released a long-held breath and leaned back into my office chair. The conversation had ended exactly how I feared it would—quietly, without drama, but with a finality that sliced through me. There was no anger, no bitter words; just two people acknowledging that what they had was over, like a candle softly flickering out.

My office, perched on the top floor of the Covington Building—an ornate, historic structure built by my great-grandfather in the late 1800s—felt like a tomb right now. The mahogany-paneled walls, heavy with family history, now seemed to close in around me. This space, with its sweeping views of the Charleston Harbor and the distant spires of old churches, had always been a source of pride, a testament to the legacy of Lowcountry Provisions Company. But today, it felt like a gilded cage, trapping me in memories of a life that had been built on expectations and obligations rather than love and fulfillment.

The floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one side of the room did little to lighten the heavy, oppressive atmosphere. The view outside reminded me of everything I had inherited, everything I had to live up to. Below, the city of Charleston hummed with life, unaware of the personal storm brewing in the office above; inside of me.

A soft knock on the door pulled me out of my thoughts.

Kath walked in, her heels clicking against the polished hardwood floors, her presence as familiar as it was unnerving. She was the CFO, a colleague, a leader—but also something far more complicated. She was a piece of my past I'd never fully let go of, and now, according to her, she wanted to be part of my present and future too.

"Lucas," she greeted, her voice smooth, her eyes searching mine. "You look pensive, sweetie. Everything alright?"

I sat up straighter, trying to compose myself, but I knew she could see the strain on my face. Kath had always had a way of reading me, of knowing when I was on edge. It was part of what had made our relationship so intense—and so volatile. We knew each other well enough to rile up passions.

"It's done." I pushed my phone away as if that act could erase the conversation I just had. "Amara and I…it's over."

Kath's lips curved into a small, almost sympathetic smile. She walked around the desk, stopping just short of where I sat, close enough that I could catch the familiar scent of her perfume—a fragrance that brought back a flood of memories, which in the past I could block, but not now, not when she was available to me.

"I'm sorry, Lucas," she murmured softly, her hand lightly brushing my shoulder.

"She's hurt." I hurt her.

"Isn't it better that it ends now and not later, when it would be even more painful for her?"

I wasn't sure if Amara was the only one hurting. I felt hollow inside. Since she moved all her stuff out, the townhouse felt empty, drained of life and soul. I'd thought I could live there, but now I was convinced that I had to get rid of it. Our bedroom still smelled like her. I'd find an errant hair tie or lipstick, and it would make my heart beat faster and infuse me with grief.

I missed her. I wasn't surprised by that. We'd been together for two years; we had a relationship where we spent time together. I enjoyed her company. She was witty and intelligent, down-to-earth, and so different from the kind of women I'd grown up with. But more than that, Amara was giving.

In all my past relationships, I was the giver. But with Amara, it was different. I enjoyed being taken care of by her just as much as I enjoyed taking care of her. She was genuinely happy with whatever I did and always grateful for it. She never expected anything—no presents, no rewards for simply being together. Kath, on the other hand, would drop hints about what she wanted for her birthday months in advance, or she'd outright ask for specific gifts on anniversaries and holidays. But Amara? I could bring her gas station flowers, and she'd light up like I'd given her diamonds.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"You poor thing," she whispered.

Something about the way Kath looked at me, the way her hand lingered just a little too long, angered me. I'd hurt a gentle and kind woman by being careless with her. I didn't deserve sympathy and let's face it, Kath wasn't being genuine because I knew she was thrilled as fuck that Amara and I were over.

She settled against my desk, her hand still on my shoulder, now stroking. "Lucas," she began, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "I've been thinking a lot about us lately—about what we had and…what we lost."

I looked up at her, meeting her gaze head-on. Her eyes, a piercing blue, were filled with an intensity that matched the fire we had always ignited in each other. The memories of our past—those years of passion, fighting, making up, tearing each other apart just to fall back together—came rushing back almost too quickly for me to process.

"I know things ended badly between us," she continued, "but I've always regretted leaving you for Mercer. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, but God, Lucas, I was wrong. I've missed you, missed us."

The words hung in the air, heavy with a past that had never quite been laid to rest. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the emotions churning inside me. Kath was the one who got away—the woman who had been everything to me from the time we were eighteen until she walked out of my life at twenty-five. We were young, passionate, reckless. Our love was intense. We fought hard, made up harder, and left emotional scars on each other, marked one another.

My relationship with Amara had been the opposite. With Amara, everything had been soft, easy, and comfortable. Our passion wasn't a wildfire; it was a steady flame; hot and constant. We didn't fight, we didn't hurt each other. With her, I felt safe, loved, and understood.