Third person pov
The night seemed quieter after his father left, but it wasn't the peaceful kind of quiet — it was the kind that echoed. The kind that made you hear every thought you've tried to bury.
Alex stood by the window, staring at the faint city lights blinking in the distance. His father's words still burned somewhere deep, threading through the silence like smoke.
"Don't forget what her family did to ours. You're not supposed to love your enemy, son."
He had said it with that same edge of disappointment — the kind that made Alex feel small again, like a boy being scolded for something he didn't even understand. But this time, he did understand. He just didn't know how to stop himself.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. "Soft," he muttered under his breath, the word tasting bitter. He couldn't deny it anymore. He was softening. Every little thing about her had begun to find a way under his skin — the way she smiled when she thought no one was watching, how she'd slip food aside for the maids even though she didn't have to, or how her silence wasn't heavy anymore; it was warm.
He hated that it felt real. That she felt real.
But he couldn't afford that. Not when everything between them began as a lie, not when his family still bore scars from her own.
He turned away from the window, pacing, his mind fighting itself — the revenge he'd sworn on one side, the tenderness creeping in on the other. His father's voice echoed again:
"Don't forget."
He wouldn't. He mustn't.
Alex clenched his fists, grounding himself. Whatever emotions were growing inside him — he'd cut them off before they grew deeper roots. Because love wasn't supposed to be part of the plan.
And neither was she.
He exhaled and whispered almost like a promise — or a warning to himself —
"I'll finish what I started… no matter how she makes me feel."