Chapter 3 A MEMORY IN BLOOM

It was a peaceful evening-one of those rare dusks that looked made for lovers. The kind of evening that wraps the world in soft winds and forgiving light, painting everything with a romantic glow.

Angelica had received a message earlier that day. Simple, casual-just an invitation for an early dinner. No pressure, just a familiar name she had been flirting with for a while. Luca. He said he had something special planned.

She wasn't expecting much. But when she arrived... It was enchanting.

A quiet garden corner in a hidden part of the city-away from the horns, the lights, and the distractions.

Luminous flowers, with petals glowing in soft amber hues, clustered around the space like nature's own fairy lights.

The warm wind carried the scent of jasmine and night-blooming cereus. A small table was set up with a snow-white tablecloth, silver cutlery glinting under the glow of delicate string lights draped like falling stars.

Two simple wooden chairs faced each other, one already pulled out. Beside the table, Luca stood-lean, sharp, and confident-with two takeaway bags in hand and that same crooked smile that once made her heart race. But we don't know that yet. Not really.

He laid out the meals with a quiet care. No rush. No flash. Just the kind of attention you give someone you still see with your heart, and your eyes.

As they sat, the conversation drifted like the breeze; light at first, then deeper. Dreams. Hopes. What-ifs. "What if..." Luca started, fingers gently circling the rim of his glass, "By some miracle, the universe gave us another shot?"

Angelica smiled softly, cheeks flushing just enough to betray what she wasn't ready to say.

She turned to the side, letting her hair fall like a curtain.

"I adore you," he said.

It caught her off guard. She looked back slowly, lips parting, eyes blinking once-as if to confirm he'd really said it.

Luca stood and reached out, gently tilting her chin up until their eyes locked.

"Let's dance." She laughed, soft and unsteady. "I'm not... exactly a dancer."

"Just go with the flow," he whispered, sliding his hand into hers. "And flow with me."

They moved together under the moonlight and the soft murmur of distant music. One hand in his, her other on his shoulder, while his hand rested around her back.

They didn't dance like professionals. They danced like people who once knew each other's rhythms... and maybe still did towards the slow romantic music playing in the background.

Slow.

Close.

Honest.

After a while, he stopped. But not completely. He lifted her chin again-tender, slow, like he was afraid the moment might shatter.

They stood in that silence, face to face.

Closer.

Closer.

Angelica closed her eyes. She felt him on her lower lip first-then everywhere. A current sparked from the kiss, slicing down her spine and humming in her knees.

Her hands clutched his shoulders. He gripped her waist tighter. It wasn't wild. It wasn't desperate. It was everything.

And then...Darkness.

She opened her eyes-wet.

Her ears caught the sound of her own breath, broken and uneven.

She was lying face-up, her pillow damp from the tears she didn't even know were falling.

That memory... that beautiful, perfect, soul-kissing memory... Why did it hurt?

She didn't know why she was crying. It was a happy moment-wasn't it? A memory that should've left her smiling.

So why did it feel like grief?

Two thoughts wrestled inside her:

Maybe that moment was the last real piece of her she had left-like her consciousness knew she was slipping.

Or maybe... it was the last time she'd felt alive, and that's what scared her most.

She blinked, forcing her eyes to look around the room.

It wasn't sterile like before. No white walls. No blinding lights. The mattress beneath her felt softer, almost comforting.

The ceiling above her was wood, not tile. And the air...The air smelled like the sea. Salty. Fresh. Almost freeing.

But she couldn't move. Not her arms, not her legs. Not even her head. She was trapped in her body, reduced to sight and breath and memory.

"How are you feeling?" A voice floated in from the doorway.

Angelica didn't answer. Couldn't.

Tears slipped silently down again. Not because she wanted to cry-but because her body didn't know what else to do.

A man walked in, rough around the edges. Skin tanned and creased, white beard trimmed short, and sea-worn eyes that had seen storms and salvation.

He sat beside her on a stool.

"I'm old," he said in a warm, gruff voice. "And I won't pretend I understand what you're going through. But I've watched you cry in your sleep more times than a man should see, and that tells me... your pain isn't just on the outside."

She blinked slowly.

"You can't talk yet. But you can hear me. And you're still alive. So let's start there."

He leaned closer, placing a warm palm on her motionless hand. "I'm not helping you because I'm some saint. I was around the corner when those bastards in black suits dumped you like garbage overboard.

I heard one of them say something that lit a fire in me. Couldn't fight 'em then. But maybe I can ruin their plans now."

He straightened up.

"You remember who you are?" he asked gently. "Blink twice for yes."

She did.

Once.

Twice.

"Good," he smiled. "Name's Baruch. You drink this; it might help even if it's just a little."

He placed a small wooden cup near her mouth. Her lips twitched instinctively, taking in the bitter, earthy taste.---

BACK IN KUALA LUMPUR...

The storm was not of water, but of legacy. A sprawling mansion stretched over manicured hills like a beast at rest.

The mansion boasts black marble floors, gold-veined columns, and glass chandeliers that glitter with a disdain for anything less than perfection.

In the grand study, Mr. Dhaval-a titan of industry wrapped in white beard and ego-sat on a throne-like leather seat, puffing from a crooked, ancient smoke pipe.

Across from him, his son Marsell stood like a boy who'd just smashed his father's empire with a single choice.

"Did I make a mistake," the old man sneered, "putting you in charge of a fraction of what I built from dust and fire?"

Marsell kept his eyes down. "My apologies, father. But I have something in mind. Rather ... someone... who'll help fix everything. He's... more capable than you think."

"You better hope he is," Dhaval hissed, gnashing his pipe between yellowed teeth. "Because if this little storm touches any other branch of my legacy, you won't need to wonder what happens next. You know what's coming."

"I understand, sir," Marsell said, bowing, though his fists clenched behind his back.

There was a beat of silence. Heavy. Loaded.

Then-

A knock on the polished oak door.

Marsell blinked. No one was supposed to interrupt this meeting.

The butler entered quietly, eyes low. "Sir... we've received... a letter. Hand-delivered. No courier. No fingerprints. Only a name."

He handed the letter to Mr. Dhaval, whose brow furrowed as he read the bold, simple script.

It read: "You should have left her deep at sea." The old man went cold.

Marsell's eyes widened. The letter dropped to the floor like a blade.