Deborah's POV
Chad clearly didn't want me to enter his apartment. From the moment I appeared at his door, his brows furrowed, and a trace of unmistakable resistance had flashed across his face.
He tried to refuse me, each attempt polite but firm, using a series of excuses to keep me standing in the cold.
"It's too late. The weather's freezing."
"My place isn't tidy."
"Honestly, there isn't much for us to discuss."
He stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, even though his hands rested casually in his coat pockets. Though his tone was even, his sharp, guarded gaze betrayed the tension underneath. He wasn't going to let me in without a fight.
I stopped for a moment, meeting his eyes, and let a hint of vulnerability creep into my expression, carefully mixing it with a touch of subtle reproach. "Chad," I began, my tone deliberate and measured, "my father knows I came to see you. If I end up freezing to death outside your door tonight, who do you think he'll hold responsible?"
The moment the words left my mouth, I saw him falter. His shoulders stiffened slightly, and a flicker of frustration had crossed his face. He looked as though he was weighing his options, trying to determine if I was bluffing or if this situation could truly spiral beyond his control.
After a brief hesitation, he sighed, straightened up, and pulled out his keys. "Fine," he said, his tone edged with reluctant resignation. "Come in. But don't stay too long."
His surrender brought a small wave of satisfaction, but I masked it with a neutral nod, stepping into his apartment as though I'd won a battle without breaking a sweat.
As the door closed behind us, something familiar stopped me in my tracks. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the drawn curtains, but that wasn't what caught my attention.
It was the scent.
It was the unmistakable fragrance of Mentzelia Involucrata.
The faint sweetness lingered in the air, delicate and unobtrusive. It was a scent I'd once loved, reminiscent of sunlit meadows and the untamed freshness of the natural world. Unlike the cloying synthetic perfumes so common in the Sky City, Mentzelia Involucrata's fragrance was light, warm, and pure—a gentle whisper of life on the surface. It was the scent of hope and simplicity, the scent of a dream I'd once shared with Chad.
And now, that dream was gone.
I stood frozen, letting the scent wash over me. My rational mind screamed that it was just a coincidence, but my heart betrayed me, stirring memories I had fought hard to bury. Why was this fragrance still here? Why, after everything, would Chad surround himself with something so tied to our past?
I felt my chest tighten, and a lump rose in my throat. Unbidden tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I tilted my head down, pretending to adjust my scarf as I struggled to regain control of my emotions. Maybe it was the familiarity of the scent, or maybe it was the flood of memories it brought back, but I couldn't stop myself from being dragged into the past.
Those were the best days of my life. Chad and me, together, dreaming of a future that now seemed like a cruel illusion.
I remembered the day I gave him his first bottle of Mentzelia Involucrata oil, the way his eyes softened as he smiled at me. "This scent reminds me of you," he'd said. "It's warm, calm, and just a little mysterious."
But now, that warmth was gone, replaced by a hollow ache.
Did he still keep this scent because he couldn't let go of the past? Or was it simply a habit—something he hadn't thought to change yet?
My chest heaved as I took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to steady myself. "Don't let this affect you," I told myself firmly. "This doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the truth."
The truth was simple: Chad was no longer the man I once loved. He was the man who destroyed my family, the one who spilled the blood of every person I held dear. This fragrance, no matter how comforting, could not erase the monstrous truth.
"Come on," Chad's voice broke the silence, calm but tinged with weariness. He walked further into the apartment, his figure silhouetted against the faint light. A moment later, he flipped a switch, and warm light filled the room.
And there it was—the wall.
I froze.
Covering one side of the living room was a collage of photos and sketches, every one of them featuring me—or rather, the woman I used to be, Lianora Lee—and Chad.
Pictures of us smiling in Hybrasil, laughing at some forgotten joke, walking hand in hand through the city's bustling streets. Sketches of my face, my eyes, my smile, each line imbued with an intimacy that made my breath catch in my throat.
For a moment, I couldn't move. My feet felt rooted to the floor, my gaze locked on the wall as memories came crashing down around me.
My mind whispered that it made sense—it had only been a few months since Lianora's death. Chad hadn't had time to take these down, to pack away the remnants of our life together. He probably hadn't even begun to truly process what had happened.
But my heart refused to accept such a logical explanation. These photos, these drawings… they weren't just remnants; they were carefully preserved, displayed with purpose. As if he couldn't bear to let them go.
Tears welled up, spilling over before I could stop them. I didn't even try to wipe them away. The weight of the past was too much, the memories too vivid. It felt like I was suffocating under the crushing realization that a part of him still clung to me—to the person I used to be.
But then I reminded myself of the truth.
This wasn't love. It wasn't devotion. It was guilt.
Chad wasn't holding on to these memories because he couldn't live without me. He was holding on because he couldn't forgive himself. My death was still fresh, my absence still raw, and this wall was his way of coping with the enormity of what he had done.
I wiped my eyes and forced myself to take a step back, away from the wall. "He's not the Chad you knew," I repeated silently. "He's not the man you loved. He's the man who murdered your family."
Chad's gaze shifted toward me, and for the first time, I saw panic flicker across his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. For a man usually so composed, his obvious discomfort was jarring.
And then it happened. Our eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, I saw his thoughts laid bare.
[Lianora? Why does she feel so much like Lianora?]
The connection snapped almost immediately as he looked away, breaking eye contact like a man avoiding a trap.
"You don't have to avoid my eyes," I said softly, my voice carrying a calmness I didn't feel. "I'm not going to use Domination on you again."
That got his attention. He glanced at me warily, clearly unsure whether to believe me.
"I know what it feels like now," I continued. "After my father used it on me, I understood how suffocating it is. I finally realized why people in the underground always obeyed me. It wasn't respect—it was fear. Being controlled like that… it's unbearable."
Chad was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke. "For people without supernatural abilities, Domination doesn't feel like anything at all."
I tilted my head, studying him. "People like the Thorne family and the Vandran family, you mean?"
"Yes." He nodded, his tone steady but detached. "But I'm different."
"Why?" I pressed, sensing something important in his words.
He hesitated, then said quietly, "Because I am a product of the Werewolf Clan and the Magic Family."
The revelation hit me like a bolt of lightning. My mind reeled as I tried to piece together the implications. Chad's resemblance to Matthew, their shared werewolf lineage… Could they be related? And if so, how? The fourteen-year age gap between them made it unlikely, but the similarities were undeniable.
Before I could voice my questions, Chad turned away, busying himself with the sofa cushions. "This place is small. You take the bedroom. I'll sleep out here."
"Actually," I said, my voice softening as I let a faint smile tug at my lips. "We could always share the bed."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. I saw his body tense, his movements frozen mid-step. When he finally looked at me, his expression was a mixture of disbelief and something darker—something that made my heart race.
I tilted my head slightly, meeting his gaze with a playful challenge. "What? Are you afraid?"
The silence between us was electric, crackling with unspoken tension. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I wasn't about to back down.