Episode 8

The morning air was still and cool, the kind that whispered of buried memories and unspoken truths. 🌫️

Zera stood at the window, her arms wrapped around herself as she watched the sun crawl over the horizon. She hadn’t slept. Not after the tension-filled dinner last night… and not after what happened with Ares.

He hadn’t kissed her. But he had looked at her like she mattered.

And that terrified her more than anything.

She slipped on a light robe and walked barefoot through the mansion’s quiet hallways. The silence here was strange—it felt more like a graveyard than a home. Even the marble seemed to echo loneliness.

Drawn by the scent of roses, she stepped into the garden.

The flowers were blooming, proud and red like spilled wine. 🌹

And there he was.

Ares.

Under the white gazebo, dressed in a loose black shirt and slacks, holding a photograph in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other—even at dawn.

He looked like a king with too many ghosts.

Zera hesitated, then stepped forward. “You drink this early?”

He didn’t look up. “Memories don’t care what time it is.”

She moved closer, curious. “What’s that?” she asked softly, nodding to the photo.

He handed it to her.

A boy—young, maybe six. Bright eyes. Messy black hair. Standing next to a woman with warm eyes and a radiant smile.

“They were my world,” he said quietly. “My mother and little brother.”

Zera’s fingers curled around the edges of the picture. “What happened to them?”

His jaw tightened. “They trusted the wrong people. And I was too young, too weak to stop it.”

She handed the photo back. “You blame yourself?”

Ares scoffed. “Blame? No. I use it.”

Her eyes searched his. “Is that why you became… this?”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“No. I became this so no one could ever take something from me again.”

A breeze passed between them, cool and full of unsaid things.

She sat beside him on the marble bench. “You don’t talk about your past much.”

“I don’t talk at all,” he said dryly.

Zera laughed softly. “That’s true.”

He smirked. The tension eased, just a little.

She tilted her head. “Do you ever miss being… normal?”

His gaze dropped to the photo in his hand. “Normal died with them.”

Silence again. Heavy. Real.

Zera’s fingers brushed his, light as a feather. To her surprise, he didn’t pull away.

She whispered**\, “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”**

He met her eyes. There was no arrogance there. No steel. Just a storm trying to stay hidden.

“Don’t try to fix me, Zera.”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” she replied. “I just want to understand.”

He looked at her like she had just said something dangerous.

Their hands stayed touching. His thumb moved slightly, tracing her knuckles.

Her heart stuttered.

Then, slowly, he leaned in.

Her breath caught. The world held still. 🌍💓

But just before their lips could meet, he stopped.

His forehead rested against hers.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

Then he stood, walking away with the photo still in hand.

Zera sat there, stunned, her heart racing.

Why did he always stop before it began?

Why did it hurt more when he left gently?

She didn’t know if she hated him for it… or if she was already falling for him.

Maybe both.

To be continued...

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