Part 90
The road is silent except for the steady hum of the tires and the faint rattle of the wind against the car's frame.
Aura keeps both hands on the wheel, her knuckles pale against the leather. Every so often, she glances toward the passenger seat.
Adrian's head rests against the window, his face calm, illuminated by the faint gold of the dashboard lights. He looks fragile — like a photograph caught between moments.
For a long time, Aura just drives. No music. No radio. Just the rhythm of his breathing and the sound of her heartbeat matching it.
The cafe fades behind her, the stars growing sharper above the trees. Every mile she puts between them and the world feels like victory — and punishment.
She tells herself this is love.
But it doesn't feel like love anymore. It feels like survival.
Because if she doesn't do this, he'll forget her completely.
"I kept your secrets," she whispers into the quiet, her voice trembling. "When everyone wanted to destroy you, I stayed. Doesn't that mean something?"
Her eyes burn, but she blinks the tears away quickly. She doesn't want to cry. Crying makes her feel weak, and weak people lose things — she won't lose him again.
When she glances at him again, she sees his reflection in the mirror — still motionless, unaware.
She presses her palm to her chest to steady the ache there.
"You'll see," she murmurs. "You'll see I'm the only one who truly loves you. Not Leah. Not the fans. Just me."
The car winds up the mountain road, where fog begins to pool like spilled smoke across the asphalt. Somewhere beyond the trees, the faint lights of her small, isolated house wait.
Alex slows down, almost reverently.
The closer she gets, the steadier her breath becomes — a strange kind of peace settling over her.
He's home now.