If only.
If only he had held her closer, if only he had seen past his own arrogance, if only he had placed her above his pride, above his convictions, above everything, above himself.
But he hadn't.
And now, the weight of that failure crushed him. The question gnawed at his soul, curling around his ribs like a viper, whispering in his ear with venomous finality. If only.
Lucien sat in silence, his fingers pressed together as if in prayer, though there was no one to pray to. No god, no salvation. Only the echoes of the past, suffocating in their persistence.
Heloisa had always been strong. Stronger than him, in ways he had never truly understood. But strength had not saved her.
She had told him everything.
Frederick had never been a man—only a shadow draped in silk, concealing rot beneath wealth, influence, and carefully crafted smiles. From the moment Heloisa had caught his attention, she had been nothing more than a conquest. A prize to be broken.
At first, it had been subtle. A hand on her waist that lingered too long, a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Whispers in dark hallways, words meant to unsettle. He wanted to own her.
When she refused, the games began.
Her father's debts suddenly swelled, her family's land tied in bureaucratic knots impossible to untangle. The walls closed in, inch by inch.
She had fled, once. Desperate, frightened, clawing for escape. But there was no place he could not reach.
Frederick had been waiting when she returned, a lesson etched in his smile. That night, he had shattered something inside her that would never quite heal.
She spoke of it all without trembling, but her eyes… her eyes were empty.
Lucien had listened, his jaw locked, his hands curling into fists against his knees. Every word was a nail driven into his gut, twisting deeper with every breath.
She had suffered. Alone.
And where had he been?
Wrapped in his own righteousness. Clutching to his ideals like a fool. Believing that if he simply stood strong, if he remained steadfast in his own justice, then somehow, she would be fine.
He should have been there. Should have seen it. Should have known.
If only.
"I'm sorry."
The words slipped from him—small, hollow, useless.
Heloisa did not answer. She only looked at him, her face an unreadable mask.
And yet… in the silence, he could hear it. The crack beneath the surface.
Lucien shifted, his fingers twitching. He needed distance. A reprieve. A reason, an excuse, something—anything—that would let him step away from the weight of this.
"…Did you ever think," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "that maybe… this was inevitable?"
A lie. A coward's retreat. But he could not stop himself from saying it.
Heloisa inhaled sharply.
He had seen her endure torment without flinching. Had watched her stare down monsters, betrayals, loss, but never had she looked as broken as she did now.
She did not lash out. Did not scream.
She only looked at him.
And then, softly, she laughed.
It was a terrible, shaking thing, like the last breath of a dying star.
"I see," she said, and the weight of her grief filled the room like a storm.
She had seen through him. Seen through the pathetic, wretched attempt to absolve himself, to make it something larger than just his failure. But she did not call him a coward. She did not need to.
She only smiled, and something inside her shattered.
The world outside had long since been carved into conflict, into steel and blood and silent wars of men who thought themselves gods. But here, in this moment, it did not exist.
Lucien sat on the worn wooden bench, the scent of fresh grass and autumn breeze threading through the air. The park was alive with laughter, the crisp rustling of leaves, the gleam of the sun on children's bright eyes.
And in the center of it all—Heloisa.
She was seated on the ground, surrounded by a small army of children, her sleeves rolled up, her fingers deftly folding bright-colored paper into delicate shapes. A paper crane, a fox, a tiny boat that wobbled as a child blew on it.
Her hair, deep red like the first hints of dusk, cascaded over her shoulders, catching in the wind. It was wild and silken, the kind of hair you wanted to touch just to feel it slip between your fingers. The freckles along her nose and cheeks were soft constellations, the kind you could map out on lazy mornings, tracing patterns like secrets shared between lovers.
Her eyes—brown, warm, rich with depth—glowed with quiet amusement as she guided the children's hands, murmuring gentle encouragements.
Lucien exhaled, watching her, a kind of warmth settling in his chest that he had almost forgotten could exist.
He had escaped to be here. He had abandoned meetings, let his phone ring unanswered, ignored the growing tensions within the company. The new membership board had been on his neck, demanding higher profits, demanding action, demanding blood.
The new member had been Frederick.
Henry Skaars-gaard had been one of the most powerful shareholders, his name alone enough to shape the tides of industry across the Scandinavian Isles. His family traced back to merchants who had once bound the fractured northern territories together, men who had waged commerce instead of war and won. That kind of history did not die. It only evolved. And Henry had ensured that his son—his heir—became the primary benefactor of that empire.
Frederick had been patient back then. Smiling. Respectful. A student of business, eager to learn.
Lucien had thought nothing of him. Not then.
But that did not matter now.
Not when she was in front of him.
Heloisa's laughter rang out, clear as water, as one of the children triumphantly held up a misshapen frog, its legs uneven.
"It's perfect," she praised, taking it delicately between her fingers. "A true masterpiece."
The child beamed.
Lucien chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. She had always been like this. Soft-spoken, patient. Beautiful, in the kind of way that did not belong to a single moment, but to all of them.
She turned then, catching his gaze, tilting her head just slightly. A knowing look.
"You're sulking."
"I'm admiring," he corrected, leaning back against the bench. "There's a difference."
Her lips curved. "So dramatic."
"I'm a businessman," he replied smoothly. "Dramatics is half the profession."
She shook her head but said nothing more, simply returning to her task, her hands steady, folding the paper with practiced ease.
Lucien let himself stay there.
Just for a while longer.
Here, where the world did not exist.
Where there was only her.
—
Meanwhile, in Real Time...
The situation was spiraling.
Gale's control was slipping, her mana leaking into the air, flickering wildly between its twin natures—healing in her right hand, destruction in her left.
Logan ducked just in time as a bird that had been peacefully nesting nearby suddenly turned into a phoenix of green flames. It squawked, igniting the grass as it took off into the sky.
"WHAT THE HELL—"
Armand, ever the calm one, simply sidestepped as a patch of the ground beneath him crumbled into dust. He barely spared Gale a glance. "She's losing control."
"No, really? I thought she was intentionally summoning the four horsemen of the apocalypse," Logan snapped, frantically patting out the small fire that had caught onto his sleeve.
Valeri, who had been trying to stabilize her, grimaced as Gale's energy lashed outward again. A tree blossomed to full bloom in an instant—then immediately withered into nothing.
"This is a problem," Valeri muttered.
"We're already dealing with a problem!" Logan shot back.
Another burst of mana. This time, the ground tilted.
The raft Armand had built for Gale began floating.
Not on water.
On pure luck.
"I don't even know how that's possible," Logan said, watching the raft levitate a good three feet into the air, swaying precariously.
Gale, barely conscious, mumbled something incoherent.
"That's nice," Logan said, looking around frantically. "Could someone please fix this before we all die?"
And yet, amidst the absolute catastrophe, Lucien sat still.
Unmoving.
Unaware.
Lost in the memory of her.
The rain had been relentless.
It slammed against the deck, thick sheets of water drowning out the horizon, reducing the sky to an endless, gray abyss. The ocean swayed violently beneath them, tilting the small boat in ways that made Lucien's already weak stomach churn.
He was slumped against the side, pale, trembling, cold sweat dripping down his temple.
Sea sickness.
His greatest enemy.
His body had never been built for this. His immune system was fragile, prone to giving out at the worst times. The cold seeped into his bones, and every lurch of the boat sent fresh waves of nausea through him.
Heloisa sat beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, pressing his head against her chest.
"You're terrible at this," she teased softly, her breath warm against his ear.
Lucien groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "I didn't think we'd end up stranded in the middle of the ocean."
It had been his fault.
They had taken this voyage as their first real date, a private little trip meant to be adventurous, romantic, fun.
And then a snake—a goddamn stowaway snake—had slithered out of the supply storage, sending Heloisa shrieking onto the highest point of the boat while Lucien, in his usual overconfidence, had attempted to kill it.
He had missed.
Instead, his reckless movements had knocked against the engine, damaging it beyond their ability to fix.
And now they were adrift.
With rations, no radio signal, and a lurking reptile somewhere in the hull.
"Amazing," Heloisa had laughed earlier, despite everything. "We survived the corporate battlefield, and now our greatest enemy is a snake."
"I'll kill it," Lucien had muttered weakly.
"You can barely sit upright."
"I will still kill it."
"You will sit here and let me take care of you."
And she had.
Now, as the rain pounded against them, she held him close, humming softly, her fingers threading through his damp hair, grounding him in a way nothing else could.
It was a song he didn't recognize—something old, something gentle, something she had probably learned from her mother.
Her warmth was the only thing keeping him from spiraling deeper.
"It's just the rain," she murmured. "It'll pass."
But it wasn't just the rain.
It was his body shutting down, his heart condition creeping back, the fever blooming beneath his skin.
He wanted to reassure her, but before he could—
Blackness.
She panicked.
Lucien had gone limp. His breath had turned shallow, weak, fading.
She had been scared before, but never like this.
The snake didn't matter anymore.
Nothing did.
She bolted inside, rain-soaked and desperate, hands shaking as she ripped open their emergency bag.
A flare.
A med kit.
A radio.
She barely knew how to use it. But she forced herself to think, to focus, to not let her fear take over.
She clumsily tuned into a signal, shouting coordinates she could barely read, begging for help through the crackling static.
Then, with what little dry space was left, she wrapped herself and Lucien in a blanket, pressing her forehead to his.
She whispered, over and over, "Stay with me."
Help came fourteen hours later.
She got pneumonia.
So did he.
But she didn't regret it.
Even from her own hospital bed, IVs hooked into her arm, she checked on him first.
Because that's who she was.
The first time they met, Lucien had been invited to speak at a conference—some dry, stiff affair filled with men in expensive suits nodding at each other's empty words. He wasn't interested, but the prestige required his presence.
And then there was her.
Heloisa sat near the front, the only one who actually listened.
Not just listened, questioned.
While the rest of the room muttered their approval and nodded along, she raised her hand. Her eyes, deep and sharp, locked onto him as she challenged his ideas, poking holes, pressing further, forcing him to explain and defend.
Lucien had never been so annoyed.
And fascinated.
He was used to admiration, deference. But she didn't care.
She wasn't impressed.
Which meant he had to make her impressed.
The chase began.
She avoided him. He persisted.
Flowers at her workplace. Waiting outside in his flashy car, leaning against it like some dramatic character from a novel. Dinner invitations, coffee invitations, even "just a walk" invitations.
She said no every time.
But she laughed.
She rolled her eyes but never truly dismissed him.
The game was fun.
And then it changed.
He had been flirting with her, again, when he noticed the three kids.
Lost.
Confused.
Small faces crinkled in distress as they clutched at their tiny shopping bags, eyes darting around the crowded plaza.
He had turned away.
Then turned back.
He knew that look, that helpless fear.
Heloisa had noticed them too. But before she could move, he was already gone.
Not after her.
But after them.
He searched everywhere, pushing past the crowd, checking between stalls, weaving through streets. He ran.
When he finally found them, their mother was already there, scolding them, pulling them close. Lucien, panting and drenched in sweat, barely had time to catch his breath before she snatched them away from him, muttering about a suspicious man chasing children.
He didn't argue.
Just stood there, watching them go, rubbing a hand down his face, utterly dejected.
And then, Heloisa was gone too.
He sighed and walked away, disappointed but not surprised.
What he didn't know, what he never knew, was that she had been watching.
She had meant to visit her friend that day, an apartment just opposite the plaza. From her window, she had watched him run like a madman, frantic, desperate.
He had climbed to the rooftop for a better view, scanning the streets, refusing to stop until he found those kids.
And that was when she almost fell.
Fell for him.
Her friend had laughed at her, Heloisa, the one who found him insufferable, arrogant, too full of himself.
But that day, she saw something different.
Something sweet.
Something earnest.
And that was how it all began.