If we don't try, we will never know
Ayah's Pov
Aubrey stood beneath the spill of chandelier light like he had been carved into the evening itself—impossible to ignore, impossible not to look at.
God… he was beautiful.
The crisp white of his shirt caught the glow, sharp against the darkness of his suit, as though he carried his own contrast with him—light and shadow, restraint and danger. His hair fell just the way I loved it, untouched and natural, soft waves slipping across his forehead like they refused to be tamed. I had always thought there was something sinful about that—how effortlessly perfect it looked, as if it knew exactly what it was doing to me.
And his eyes…
Those emerald eyes glinted beneath the chandeliers, catching fragments of gold, of warmth, of everything I shouldn't have been feeling. They didn't just look—they held. They pulled. They made staying away feel like a lie I was telling myself.
My gaze drifted lower, betraying me.
The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw sharpened him, gave him an edge that hadn't been there before. It made him look older. Colder. More dangerous. And somehow—God help me—more mine.
On his left wrist, the gleam of his Cartier watch caught the light with every subtle movement, resting against veins that traced like quiet promises beneath his skin. I swallowed, my breath catching somewhere between my ribs and my pride.
I realized then—
I hadn't looked away.
Not once.
And neither had they.
The room had noticed him.
Women watched him like they were memorizing a dream they would never have. Men glanced at him with something sharper—envy, quiet and biting. It should've meant nothing to me. It should've been expected.
But it wasn't nothing.
Something twisted inside me, sudden and unfamiliar—hot, irrational, almost embarrassing in its intensity.
Possessiveness.
It rose before I could stop it, before I could think better of it.
Before I could remember who I was supposed to be.
My hand moved on its own.
I slipped my arm through his, fingers brushing against the firm line of his sleeve, anchoring myself to him in a way that felt far too natural. Far too dangerous. My heart stuttered the moment our bodies aligned—closer than we had ever dared, closer than I had ever allowed.
And then I smiled.
Soft. Certain.
Victorious.
As if I had just claimed something that had always been mine.
His reaction was instant.
Aubrey stilled.
Not completely—never completely—but just enough for me to feel it. The subtle shift. The quiet surprise that flickered through him, almost imperceptible to anyone else… but not to me.
Of course, he was shocked.
I wa,s too.
Because for once—
It wasn't him crossing the distance.
It was me.
"So… where is our seat?" I asked lightly, my lips curved in something that resembled ease, though my eyes wandered—sharp, deliberate—skimming across the room. Over polished glasses, over whispered conversations, over women who lingered a second too long on him.
And when I caught them—those glances—I didn't look away.
I held them.
Just long enough for it to mean something.
Just long enough for them to understand.
We moved through the room together, our arms still linked, bodies aligned in a quiet, undeniable statement. Midnight had settled into the evening like a secret—soft, dim, intimate. The kind of hour where everything felt a little more dangerous, a little more honest.
And I could feel it.
Every step.
Every breath.
Him.
When we reached the table, Aubrey gently slipped his arm from mine, the absence immediately noticed, felt. Before I could react, he pulled out my chair, smooth and effortless, as though this was instinct to him. As though taking care of me came as naturally as breathing.
I paused for half a second.
Then inclined my head gracefully, letting him have that small victory.
"Thank you," I murmured, my voice softer than I intended.
I sat, smoothing the fabric of my dress, gathering myself back into composure—back into control.
Or at least, something that looked like it.
Aubrey took his seat across from me, settling in with that same quiet confidence that always seemed to follow him. It wasn't loud. It wasn't forced.
It just… was.
And somehow, that made it worse.
"You look stunning tonight," he said, a slow smile touching his lips—one that didn't just stay there, but reached his eyes, softened them.
As if that wasn't enough.
As if his presence alone hadn't already undone me in ways I refused to admit.
As if he didn't know exactly what he was doing.
I held his gaze, refusing to let it shake me.
"You don't look quite bad yourself," I replied, tilting my head ever so slightly, letting my words carry a hint of tease, a hint of defiance.
A pause.
Then, softer—sharper.
"But I must say… You made me work hard to meet you here tonight."
And there it was.
The truth, laced beneath the silk.
Because nothing about him was ever easy.
And somehow—
I had come anyway.
He chuckled—low, warm, the sound curling through the space between us like something alive.
It shouldn't have affected me.
But it did.
God, it did.
His voice lingered, rich and deep, settling somewhere far too close to my chest. And for a fleeting, dangerous second, I wished—selfishly, shamelessly—that it belonged to me alone. That I was the only one who got to hear it like this. Like something intimate. Like something meant.
"I mean," he continued, his lips curving just enough to betray him, "after the rejection, I was heartbroken… so consider it a little punishment?"
I blinked.
Heartbroken.
The word shouldn't have done anything.
And yet—
something in me faltered.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
Because Aubrey Ardel didn't seem like someone who broke. He seemed like the kind of man who left things shattered behind him and walked away untouched. Unbothered. Unreachable.
But this?
This sounded almost real.
Too real.
My fingers tightened subtly against the edge of the table, my composure slipping for the briefest moment before I gathered it back—before I forced it back.
"Oh?" I leaned back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, letting a small, knowing smile touch my lips. "Heartbroken, were you?"
My tone was light.
Playful.
As if I hadn't just felt that word settle somewhere deep inside me.
As if I hadn't noticed the way he said it.
As if I didn't care.
I held his gaze, steady, unwavering—refusing to be the one who looked away first.
"Well then," I added softly, tilting my head just enough, "I suppose I should apologize."
A pause.
Deliberate.
Careful.
"But something tells me… You enjoyed the suffering a little too much."
His eyes flickered.
Just once.
But I caught it.
That shift—the way the light inside them dimmed, deepened, turned into something far more dangerous than before. It was subtle, almost invisible to anyone else. But I felt it like a change in air pressure, like the moment before a storm breaks.
He was holding himself back.
For me.
"I would suffer a thousand years," he said quietly, his voice no longer teasing—no longer light—"if it means I can stay beside you… and have you right where I want you to be."
My breath hitched.
Not loudly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But inside me—
Everything stilled.
Because there was something in the way he said it. Not a joke. Not entirely. There was truth woven into it, something heavy, something that wrapped around my ribs and tightened.
A thousand years.
It should have sounded dramatic.
It should have sounded impossible.
But coming from him—
It felt like a promise.
My fingers curled slightly in my lap, the fabric of my dress grounding me as I forced myself to breathe, to think, to not let him see the way his words had slipped past every defense I had so carefully built.
"You speak in extremes," I murmured, my voice softer now, quieter—dangerously close to giving me away.
I held his gaze.
I had to.
Because looking away would mean surrender.
"And you assume," I added, tilting my head ever so slightly, forcing a trace of control back into my expression, "that I would let you keep me exactly where you want."
A pause.
A heartbeat stretched thin.
Then, gently—almost like a secret—
"Maybe I'm not the one who stays."
But even as I said it—
even as I let the words fall between us—
something inside me whispered the truth I refused to speak aloud.
I already was.
The air had shifted.
I could feel it—thick, charged, almost trembling with something neither of us dared to name. The distance between us no longer felt like space; it felt like a fragile thread, pulled taut, waiting for one of us to break it.
This version of Aubrey—
it was unguarded.
Not careless, never that. But stripped of its polish. As though he had laid himself bare before me, not in weakness, but in quiet offering. As if he was asking—without asking—for me to see him wholly.
The darkness.
The restraint.
The aching, relentless devotion beneath it all.
As if he was saying—
if you love me, love me like this too.
My breath slowed, uneven.
Because I didn't know if that made him more dangerous…
or more divine.
"Even if you are not the one who stays," he said, his voice low, steady, yet laced with something that felt eternal, "then let me be the one who remains. Let me be the quiet constant at the edge of your world—the one who waits, not out of obligation, but because there is nowhere else I would rather be."
The words didn't rush.
They unfolded.
Deliberate.
Certain.
"My reverence for you," he continued, softer now, his gaze unwavering as though he had already chosen me in ways I hadn't yet understood, "stands equal to the love I carry. And so I will come to you—again and again—no matter how far you wander, no matter how often you turn away."
His fingers stilled against the table, as if even they were listening.
"I will endure the distance," he said, quieter, the edges of his voice roughened by something too real to conceal, "I will bear the longing, the silence, the absence of you… and still, I will return."
A breath.
Measured.
Almost breaking.
"I will yearn for you in ways I cannot speak of without losing myself to them. I will ache for you in the quiet, in the in-between, in every moment where you are not beside me—"
His voice dipped, not weaker, but deeper.
"But never will I lay claim to you without your consent. Never will I take what is not given to me freely."
That—
That was where it shattered me.
Because restraint, when worn like devotion, felt far more powerful than possession ever could.
"And yet…" he added, his gaze darkening, not with force, but with something far more dangerous—something that wanted, "every fragment of me will still reach for you. In thought, in breath, in the very marrow of my being… I will belong to the wanting of you."
Silence followed.
Not empty.
But full.
Overflowing.
My fingers tightened in my lap, grounding myself as my pulse betrayed me—too fast, too loud, too consumed by him.
Because this—
This wasn't a desire alone.
It was something sacred.
Something ruinous.
Devotion, laced with restraint.
Longing, made beautiful.
And somehow—
That made it unbearable.
I swallowed, my composure slipping at the edges, my thoughts unravelling beneath the weight of him.
Because the truth—
the quiet, terrifying truth—
was that I no longer knew if I wanted to escape it…
or surrender to it entirely.
Before I could gather the fragments of myself—before I could shape a response worthy of what he had just given me—the moment was gently broken.
A waitress approached, her presence soft but grounding, placing the menus before us like a quiet interruption to something far too intense for the world outside to witness.
Reality, slipping back in.
"Please, order whatever you wish… Emma."
His smile followed the name.
Warm. Effortless.
Unknowing.
And that—
That was what unravelled me.
Emma.
The name echoed in my mind, heavier than it had ever felt before. It wasn't just a disguise. It wasn't just a precaution.
It was a distance.
A quiet, deliberate wall was placed between me and the man who sat across from me—offering me everything, while I stood there, giving him something that wasn't even real.
A man who loved…
a woman who did not even trust him with her true name.
My smile returned, almost on instinct.
But it wavered.
Just slightly.
Just enough for me to feel it.
I lowered my gaze, opening the menu, letting its polished pages shield me—if only for a moment—from the weight of his presence, from the weight of my own truth.
The dishes were familiar.
Comfortingly so.
The prices—nothing extraordinary. Nothing that would have startled me back home, seated beside my family, where luxury was quiet and expected, where elegance didn't need to announce itself.
But here—
with him—
I had to be someone else.
So I let my eyes widen, just a fraction too much.
Let my fingers pause, as though I were taking it in.
Let a soft, impressed breath leave my lips.
A performance.
A careful one.
And when I glanced up—
He was watching me.
Smitten.
As though my reaction alone had been worth bringing me here.
"As if this could impress me more than you already have," I thought—but I said nothing.
Instead, I played my part.
"What would you usually have?" he asked, his tone gentle, curious—not prying, but wanting to know me.
Or at least—
the version of me I was allowing him to see.
I answered lightly, carefully, giving him just enough truth to feel real, but never enough to reveal myself entirely.
And he listened.
Of course he did.
He always did.
Then, without hesitation, he began to choose—his voice calm, assured, occasionally glancing up to meet my eyes as he asked, "Is this alright?" before continuing.
Each time, I nodded.
Each time, something in me softened.
Because there was no arrogance in it.
No assumption.
Only consideration.
Only care.
Such a gentleman.
And yet—
That word felt too small for what he was.
Because Aubrey did not simply order for me.
He curated.
He observed.
He remembered.
And in doing so—
He made it feel like I was not just someone sitting across from him.
But someone he had already chosen.
Someone he intended to understand.
And God—
That made pretending so much harder.