“I’m sorry, Elara,” he murmured. “Let me explain.”

He then revealed what I could never have imagined. His adoptive family, immensely wealthy, ran an empire built on dubious dealings.

When he was younger, Kael had been their strategist, the brain behind their projects. Out of loyalty, he had turned a blind eye. But one day, he wanted to emancipate himself.

He had created his own business, honest and prosperous. That’s when they started threatening him, using my existence as leverage.

“They could have hurt you to get to me,” he said. “I had to disappear.”

So he had orchestrated his death: a drug to slow his heart, bribed accomplices, an empty coffin. Everyone believed it. Except me, that night. I was devastated.

“YOU LET ME BURY YOU!” I screamed, my throat torn.

He acknowledged my pain. Yet, he had thought of everything: by “dying,” he had legally transferred his assets into my name, safe from his family. He offered me to sell, share the money, then start over elsewhere.

“Come with me,” he dared to ask.

At first, I refused. How could I forgive? But the days passed. His parents tried to strip me of everything, without success. And in the silence that followed, I discovered that my anger did not erase love. Against all logic, I still loved him.

One evening, I answered his call. His voice trembled with hope.

“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m coming. But never again.”

Today, we live far away, in a new country. The streets are unfamiliar to me, but the sea is close, the sun is gentle. We remarried quietly, finally free from hostile eyes.

When I listen to his peaceful breathing, I think of all I have lost—and gained. We were given a second chance. I do not have the right to waste it.