Wiping the last crystal goblet, Amelia felt the tension drain from her shoulders, only to be replaced by a fresh wave of unease. Mr. Volkov’s predatory gaze still prickled her skin, a phantom touch in the glittering hall. She carefully placed the glass on a silver tray, her hands aching from the repetitive motion. Every muscle screamed for rest. Suddenly, a shadow fell over her. Her breath hitched. She didn't need to look up to know who it was. The air around her grew colder, sharper, as if a storm front had just rolled in. Rhys stood directly in front of her, his tailored suit a stark contrast to her simple uniform. His eyes, usually a stormy blue, were like chips of ice, devoid of any warmth. He surveyed the polished glasses, then her, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Done, I see,” he drawled, his voice low, cutting through the ambient chatter like a razor. “Impressive, for someone who once claimed to be too delicate for manual labor.” Amelia’s jaw clenched. The accusation stung, twisting a knife in an old wound. She met his gaze, refusing to flinch. “I complete every task assigned to me, Mr. Sterling.” His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher—anger? Disappointment?—danced in their depths before vanishing. “Do you now? A sudden change of heart, or a convenient memory lapse?” A flush crept up her neck. He was digging, intentionally prodding at the rawest parts of her past with him. He was a master of psychological warfare. This wasn’t just about the glasses. This was about everything. “My work is finished,” she stated, trying to keep her voice even. Her hands trembled slightly, betraying her outward composure. She just wanted to escape, to breathe without his suffocating presence. “Not quite.” He stepped closer, invading her personal space. His scent—a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely Rhys, primal and dangerous—flooded her senses, making her head spin. “We need to talk, Amelia.” Her heart hammered against her ribs. Talking with Rhys never ended well. Especially not now, not here, not with Volkov potentially watching. “There’s nothing to discuss.” “Oh, I think there is.” His gaze burned into hers, a silent challenge. “Three years, Amelia. Three years you vanished without a trace, without a word. Did you truly believe I’d just forget?” Guilt, thick and suffocating, wrapped around her. His words were precise, each one a barb designed to tear at her. She remembered that day with agonizing clarity. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of his penthouse, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Her suitcase, small and packed with only essentials, stood by the door. Her hands were shaking as she clutched the note she’d written, her last shred of courage draining with every passing second. Rhys had been asleep, his arm flung out across the empty space beside him, where she should have been. His face, relaxed in sleep, was so achingly vulnerable. She’d traced the line of his jaw, tears blurring her vision. Leaving him was the hardest thing she had ever done. Her family’s desperate calls, the hushed threats of Mr. Volkov’s men, the crushing weight of their debt. They had given her an ultimatum: disappear, or Rhys would pay. He would lose everything. His future, his company, his life. They had made it clear. Her absence was his only protection. Slipping out of his bed, she’d dressed silently, her movements practiced from weeks of covert preparations. Each step away from him felt like tearing a piece of her soul. She’d left the note on his pillow, a pathetic attempt at explanation that she knew wouldn't suffice. “Forgive me,” it had read. “I had no choice.” She remembered the cold click of the lock as she closed his apartment door behind her, sealing her fate, severing their connection. The emptiness in her chest had been a physical ache, a gaping wound that had never truly healed. She’d walked away, not just from him, but from the only future she’d ever truly wanted. Back in the present, Rhys’s voice ripped her from the painful memory. “Did you really think I wouldn’t seek answers? That I wouldn’t want to know why the woman I was supposed to marry disappeared overnight?” His voice dropped to a whisper, lethal in its intensity. “Why the woman who swore she loved me abandoned me like I meant nothing?” His words were a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. Abandoned. That was exactly how he must have felt. And she couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t explain the threats, the debt, the impossible choice. The truth would only put him in danger, even now. “You ran, Amelia,” he continued, his eyes burning with accusation. “You proved every single person right who said you were a gold digger, a flight risk, not worth the trouble.” His words were designed to shatter, to dismantle her piece by piece. Her hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into her palms. The irony was suffocating. She had left to protect him from the very accusations he was now leveling against her. She had sacrificed everything for him, and he saw it as betrayal. A bitter taste filled her mouth. “What do you want from me, Rhys?” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. “I want an explanation,” he demanded, his voice rising, drawing a few curious glances from nearby guests. “I want to know why you threw away everything we had. Why you broke your vow.” His jaw was tight, a muscle twitching near his temple. “You took my trust, my future, and you crushed it. You are a liar, Amelia. A coward.” His final words sliced through her like shards of glass. Liar. Coward. The very reasons she couldn't explain herself. The bitter truth was that she had to remain a coward, a liar, to keep him safe. And he would never know. She stared back at him, her chest heaving, a silent scream trapped in her throat. The chasm between them felt wider, deeper, more impassable than ever before. Her sacrifice meant nothing to him. Only her perceived betrayal remained.

Chapter 7: Echoes of Abandonment