Chapter 1 The wife the all ignored

The dining table was dressed like something out of a lifestyle magazine. Expensive gold plated cutlery. Imported wine. A rich velvet table runner that matched the deep red of Amara's dress. Everything was perfect. Except the seat across from her was empty. Again. Amara checked the time on her phone for the fifth time that night 10:47 PM. Dylan wasn't coming home. She knew it now. Her fingers tightened around the wine glass, the chilled stem shaking slightly in her grip. Three years married. Three years invisible.

She had cooked his favorite meal creamy truffle pasta with grilled salmon, a dish she'd learned from one of his old cookbooks back when she still believed food could fix things. Now the pasta had gone cold. The salmon sat untouched. Just like her heart. The door creaked open. She stood up quickly, hope flaring in her chest. But it wasn't Dylan. It was Margaret his mother. "Oh," Margaret said, wrinkling her nose as she stepped inside, removing her gloves. "Still pretending like he's going to show up?" Amara swallowed. "He said he might be home early tonight." Margaret let out a light, mocking laugh. "Darling, your husband is at a charity gala. With real women. Not... strays." That word again. Stray. Orphan. Nobody. Amara said nothing. She had perfected silence the way other women perfected makeup. Margaret took a slow glance at the table. "Truffle? You're still wasting ingredients on someone who forgot you exist?" Still, Amara didn't speak. She was tired of speaking. Words hadn't gotten her anywhere in this house. She had stopped trying the day Dylan forgot her birthday... while hosting a private dinner for his business partner's wife. Margaret pulled out a chair, uninvited, and sat. "You know," she began, swirling the wine Amara had poured for Dylan, "when Dylan first brought you home, I thought he was just trying to prove he wasn't shallow. But then he married you, and I realized..." She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "He was just bored." Amara smiled politely. It wasn't real. "Would you like some food?" "No, thanks. I already ate. With people who matter." Before Amara could respond, her phone buzzed on the table. A message from Dylan. Just one word: Busy. No "Happy Anniversary." No call. Not even a voice note. She stared at the word until her vision blurred. Margaret stood and slid on her coat. "Try not to embarrass him, Amara. Stay in your lane." As soon as she left, Amara let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She stood in the silence, the humiliation, the heaviness and then slowly walked to the window. The city lights twinkled below like distant stars. Somewhere out there, her husband was laughing, toasting to strangers, forgetting the woman who once took an electric shock to save his life. The night he collapsed, she had screamed for help while pressing her bare hands to the broken wire that had struck him. She carried the burn scars on her palm even now. But no one ever asked how she got them. He didn't even remember. The front door opened again. Heavy footsteps. He was home. Amara wiped her face quickly, straightened her dress, and returned to the table. She wanted to pretend this night could be saved. Dylan entered the room without looking at her. "You're late," she said softly. "Work." "It's our anniversary." He shrugged off his jacket. "Didn't realize you still cared about dates." Ouch. Amara's throat tightened. "I cooked for you." He finally looked at the table and then at her. His eyes scanned her dress, her effort, her presence. For a moment, something flickered across his face. Guilt? Maybe. But it disappeared too quickly. "I ate already." Of course he had. She sat back down, her hands trembling slightly beneath the table. "Can we talk? Just for five minutes?" Dylan poured himself a drink. "About what?" "About us. About how distant you've been. About how your mother" "Don't start, Amara," he said, voice cold. "You knew what this marriage was." She flinched. A business arrangement. That's what he always called it when things got tense. Never mind that they'd shared real moments. Never mind that she'd fallen in love with him long before the ring. He sat down across from her but didn't touch the food. "Look, I appreciate the effort, but... this isn't working. I'm tired. I have a lot on my mind." "Like her?" she asked quietly. He looked up sharply. "Excuse me?" "Your friend. The one always calling. The one who touches your arm and looks at me like I'm the maid." He didn't deny it. "She's just... easier," he muttered. Amara's heart shattered quietly in her chest. She stood up. "I'm going to bed." "Suit yourself." She turned away from him and walked slowly down the hallway. When she reached their bedroom, she locked the door behind her and sank to the floor. For a moment, she let herself cry no sounds, just the shaking kind. Then, with trembling fingers, she opened the drawer beside the bed. Her name, printed in black and gold on company letterhead, stared back at her like a challenge. Amara E. Monroe. CEO. She hadn't used that title in years not since she married Dylan and made a silent vow to choose love over legacy. Now, that vow felt like a cruel joke. Her fingers hovered over the envelope, aching to rip it open, aching to remind herself that she was more than this life more than the woman who got ignored in her own home, insulted by her husband's mother, and replaced in his heart by someone who had only ever wanted his wealth and spotlight. But she didn't tear it open. Not yet. She wasn't ready to show the world. Not while her heart still fought for a man who had stopped fighting for her. There was a knock at the door. She flinched, quickly hiding the envelope back in the drawer. "Amara," Dylan's voice came through, flat and tired. "Can we talk?" She didn't answer. He waited a few seconds, then added, "I'm sorry." That got her attention. But she didn't move. "I've just had a lot on my mind," he continued. "Business has been rough. My mom's been pressuring me. I know I haven't been present, but... I didn't mean to forget." Amara closed her eyes. The apology was mild, half-hearted, and clearly more about easing his own guilt than actually seeing her pain. Still, she opened the door. Dylan looked like a man who hadn't slept either. Shirt wrinkled, eyes tired, guilt. The Stranger in His Bed The sun poured through the tall windows like it had no idea the night before had been a complete disaster. Amara stood in front of the full-length mirror, tying her satin robe. Her red anniversary dress lay crumpled on the floor, forgotten like everything else she had tried to give Dylan. She ran a hand over her hair and forced her face into something neutral. Calm. Unbothered. But inside, she was cracked. Behind her, Dylan stirred in bed, groaning as the light hit his face. "Why are you dressed like that?" he mumbled without opening his eyes. Amara stared at him through the mirror. "You don't remember?" He finally sat up, his eyes still cloudy from the wine and whatever else he had drowned himself in the night before. He looked at her as if she were a stranger in his bed. "Remember what?" She didn't answer. She didn't need to. His eyes eventually flicked toward the half-melted candle wax on the nightstand. The dried rose petals on the floor. The untouched anniversary cake, still sitting in the corner. "Oh," he muttered. "That." "That," she repeated softly, wrapping her arms around herself. "It's been three years, Dylan." He stood and grabbed his phone from the charger, already scrolling. "Don't make this dramatic, Amara. I told you I had things to do." "You always do," she said, voice flat. "But when do those things include me?" He stopped at the door, sighing. "I'm not doing this this morning. I have a tasting to prep for. Big investors will be there." "And I suppose your friend Chloe will be assisting you again?" He froze. Just for a second. But it was enough. "She's part of the team," he said simply. Amara nodded once. Her silence was louder than any fight. He looked at her again, as if trying to find the girl he once dated, the one who clapped for him when no one else did. She was still there. But she didn't shine for him anymore. "She understands me," Dylan said finally, walking to the closet. Those words... They cut deeper than the ones he didn't say. Later that day, Amara found herself seated in her home office the one she never used because Dylan's family liked to joke that she had "nothing to work on." But today, her laptop was open, her phone beside her, and her heart hardened. A video call popped up. She clicked accept. Mr. Adebayo's face filled the screen. "Good morning, Madam Monroe." She flinched at the name. She hadn't heard it in months. He continued, "The Paris hotel acquisition has gone through. Shall we move forward with the press announcement?" Amara looked down at the ring on her finger. "No. Not yet." "You sure?" he asked gently. "The world is starting to ask who's really behind all this." "Let them wonder," she whispered. "The longer I stay hidden, the harder they'll fall when the truth comes." That evening, Dylan returned early. Shockingly early. He walked in with a flat bag from one of her favorite luxury stores. She blinked, surprised. He placed it on the table. "What's this?" she asked, not moving to touch it. "A dress," he said, shrugging. "There's a gala next weekend. You'll need something decent." Her heart sank. Not for the gift for the way he gave it. No apology. No emotion. Just... duty. "You think a dress makes up for forgetting me?" she asked. "It's not that deep, Amara." She stood from the couch. "That's the problem, Dylan. It's never that deep to you. But you're killing me slowly." He looked up then, eyes narrowing. "Don't make everything emotional. You knew what this was when we started." "I thought you'd grow into the kind of man who could love someone without a title." He laughed, bitter. "Love? Don't talk to me about love. You can't even keep a job." She smiled softly. "You're right. I don't have a job." She walked past him, heels clicking softly on the marble floor. "I own the company." He turned, confused. "What?" But she was already gone. And for the first time in years, Amara felt a little bit free. The dress still sat on the couch, unopened. Dylan glanced at it again as he adjusted his shirt collar, the silence in the house pressing down on him like a weight. Amara hadn't touched the gift. She hadn't said a word to him all morning. No sarcastic remarks. No passive-aggressive sighs. Just... silence. Too much silence. He leaned against the counter, sipping bitter coffee, and staring blankly at the kitchen window. She hadn't made breakfast. She always made breakfast. He didn't realize how much he expected it until it was gone. The clinking of heels echoed faintly behind him. He turned just as Amara walked past the kitchen entrance, dressed in a sleek black blouse and tailored pants, her hair pulled back into a neat, elegant bun. Dylan blinked. "You're going somewhere?" She didn't stop walking. "I have things to do." He followed her to the door. "Since when do you have things to do?" She paused, her hand on the handle, then glanced back with a cool, unreadable smile. "Since I got tired of waiting for you to notice me." The door closed softly behind her. Dylan stood frozen, a strange tightness in his chest. That was not the Amara he knew. Or maybe... he never really knew her. The SUV that picked Amara up was matte black with tinted windows and silent doors. The man in the front seat nodded without speaking. They drove through the city in smooth silence, headed for the Lagos branch of the Monroe Foundation. She entered through the private elevator. Everyone greeted her with quiet respect. "Madam Monroe," her assistant whispered, handing her a tablet. "The Paris deal press release has leaked in France. Forbes Africa is asking who the lead investor is." "Keep them guessing," Amara replied smoothly. "For now." She stepped into the glass-walled boardroom, her heels clicking confidently. Executives stood. The meeting began. Amara Monroe wasn't invisible here. Back at home, Dylan couldn't stop pacing. He opened her side of the closet. There were clothes he hadn't noticed before luxury labels, rare designer pieces. He never paid attention before. He thought she wore what he gave her, but clearly, she had her own. He grabbed her laptop off the nightstand. It was locked. Not unusual, but somehow, it felt different now. Like there was something in there he wasn't meant to see. His phone buzzed. Chloe again. Chloe: "Lunch? I have something you'll want to see." He typed a reply, paused... then erased it and dropped the phone on the bed. Instead, he opened Instagram. Not Amara's page his explore feed. There she was. Amara. Sitting front row at a luxury women-in-business event. Elegant. Poised. Confident. The caption read: "Mystery woman in black stuns at the Lagos Wealth Collective event. Sources say she may be tied to the Monroe International Group." Dylan's chest tightened. Monroe? No. It had to be a coincidence. Right? He scrolled again. Another photo. Amara shaking hands with a governor's wife. Smiling beside the CEO of a top African fashion brand. The comment section was flooded: "Who is she?" "New billionaire wife?" "That's Dylan Grant's wife... right?" He dropped the phone. For the first time in three years, Dylan felt like a man watching someone else live with the woman he married. Someone who valued her. The silence in the penthouse was thick. Dylan sat on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through social media, trying to ignore the rising buzz around Amara. She was everywhere now. Paparazzi photos. Business blog headlines. Anonymous tip-offs. "Monroe Heiress spotted in Lagos!" "Mystery Billionaire Wife of Chef Dylan Grant?" "How one woman is changing the power game quietly." And yet, she hadn't said a word to him. No denial. No confirmation. No fight. Just distance. He barely noticed the front door open. Amara stepped in gracefully, dressed in a tailored navy jumpsuit, heels clicking softly as she walked to the console and dropped her keys. She looked fresh from another closed-door event - calm, composed, unreachable. "You're home early," he muttered. "I didn't want to be late for this," she said simply, placing a manila envelope on the glass table. Dylan frowned. "What's that?" She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she walked to the bar, poured herself a glass of water, and took a slow sip before turning to face him. Her eyes didn't carry anger. Just resolve. "I'm leaving," she said. Dylan blinked. "What do you mean?" "I'm asking for a divorce." The words hung in the air like smoke from a blown-out candle soft, final, undeniable. "You're not serious," he said, laughing without humor. "This is about the anniversary? Chloe? What now?" Amara shook her head. "This isn't about one night. This is about every night. Every time you ignored me. Every time you made me feel small. Every time your mother mocked me and you said nothing." He stood, voice rising. "We can work through this " "No," she said firmly. "We can't. Because you don't love me. You never did. You loved the idea of being a savior. A man who married a 'nobody.'" She walked closer, placing a soft palm on his chest. "But I was never nobody, Dylan. I was everything. And you didn't see it." His breath caught. "Amara She stepped back. "The contracts are inside. I won't fight you for anything. I don't need your money. I never did." Dylan's mouth opened, but no words came. "I gave up everything for you," she continued. "My name. My legacy. My world. Just to be your wife. To be loved for me, not for Monroe. But even when I was silent, I was still too much for you." He sank into the couch. "I didn't know " "You never wanted to know," she said softly. Silence fell again. Then he asked the question he never thought he'd ask: "Who are you, really?" Amara smiled not cruelly, not proudly. Just... peacefully. "I'm the woman you prayed for... and threw away when she arrived." She picked up her bag, turned to the door, then paused. "You know, I used to dream of hearing you say you loved me. Now I just dream of peace." And with that, she walked out. No screaming. No breakdown. No second look. Dylan sat frozen, the envelope untouched on the table. The woman he ignored had just left him quietly, beautifully, completely. And only now did he realize: He had never deserved her. The camera light turned red. The studio fell into silence. Amara smiled gently from the velvet seat as Nigeria's most respected talk show host leaned in and asked, "So... who are you really?" Amara's lips parted slowly. "My name is Amara Monroe. I am the only daughter of Charles Monroe founder of Monroe Holdings International." The audience gasped. Even the camera crew froze. "I'm the CEO of Monroe Africa. We've been operating quietly in Nigeria and Ghana for the last five years under subsidiaries," she continued, cool and calm. "Until recently, I kept my identity private." The host's eyes widened. "So... you're a billionaire?" Amara smiled. "Yes. Quietly. I never wanted the attention." "But weren't you married to Dylan Grant?" the host asked carefully. "The celebrity chef?" "I was." "Did he know?" Amara paused. "No. He didn't." By morning, the interview had reached every corner of the country and beyond. Clips of her declaration flooded Instagram, TikTok, and Twitter. Business journals released think pieces: "The Billionaire Wife You Slept On" "Amara Monroe: How a Boss Played the Long Game" For weeks, Amara had trended globally. She was now one of Africa's most talked-about women. She went from being Dylan's "silent wife" to a global power figure. From ghost to queen. Dylan... watched it all alone. And bitter. A month later, the Golden Chef Battle semifinals aired. Dylan stood on stage, sweat forming at his temple. He'd trained for this, pushed through humiliation, rejection, and heartbreak. This contest was his comeback. His redemption. His chance to be seen again. But he didn't win. The crowd roared not for him... ...but for Charly Edebayo. Young. Fearless. Passionate. Dylan clapped stiffly, swallowing his pride. Then he saw her. Amara. Walking onto the stage in a black power suit, presenting the $100,000 prize to Charly. The crowd lost it. Cameras flashed. Bloggers screamed. She hugged Charly. Too long. Too warm. Too perfect. The next morning, tabloids ran wild: "Billionaire Amara Monroe spotted cozy with rising chef!" "Did Amara dump Dylan for Charly?" Dylan slammed his phone on the table. "No. No way." He drove straight to her office. Past glass doors. Past marble floors. Into a private elevator that required a biometric scan - which he didn't have. Security stopped him. "I need to speak to Amara." "She's in a meeting," one replied. "And you're not on the list." "She's my-" The guard raised a brow. "She's your what, Mr. Grant?" Dylan stepped back. Even her guards looked at him like a memory. That night, he waited outside the Monroe building. When her SUV finally pulled up, he walked toward her quickly. "Amara-please." She paused, eyes calm. "You shouldn't be here." "Was it true? You and Charly?" She blinked. "Do I owe you that answer?" His voice broke. "I thought you loved me." "I did." "Then why why support someone else publicly?" "Because he earned it, Dylan. He worked. He didn't mock others for their journey. He respected me." He laughed bitterly. "So, you reward him with hugs and smiles?" "I reward people who don't cheat," she replied coldly. He flinched. "You think I don't know about Chloe?" she added. "The late-night visits. The lipstick. The lies." "That was" She raised her hand. "Don't insult me by explaining." He swallowed. "Please... I messed up. But we were good once. Can't we try again?" Amara's eyes softened for just a second. Then she turned away. "I've already left you once, Dylan. This time, I'm choosing me." She entered the SUV and disappeared into the night. Meanwhile... Chloe watched it all. Her obsession had grown into madness. Her hands trembled when she saw new headlines of Amara and Charly. The way Dylan still chased his ex-wife made her feel like a ghost. "I gave you everything," she whispered, scrolling through old pictures of them together. But she wasn't dumb. She knew the only reason Dylan had ever kept her close was because he thought Amara was less. Now that he knew Amara was more infinitely more he wanted her back. And Chloe? She was just... in the way. Unless... She wasn't. It was raining that night hard, angry drops beating against the windshield of Amara's SUV as it pulled up to the conference hall. Flashbulbs popped in every direction. Reporters pressed against the barricades, calling her name. But Amara was calm. Unbothered. Elegant. She had been invited as the keynote speaker at the annual Women in Power summit. And despite everything her fame, her secrets, the chaos she had shown up. She walked past the crowd like royalty. Poised. Untouchable. What she didn't know was that someone had followed her. Someone furious. Someone dangerous. Deleon had been pacing outside her green room, nerves unraveling. He'd tried everything calls, letters, even contacting her brother. But Amara hadn't said a word since the incident with Chloe. Now, standing outside the event venue in the dark, umbrella in one hand and hope in the other, he waited. She would walk out eventually. He'd say it then. All of it. He'd tell her how sorry he was. How he was wrong-blind in more ways than one. How he missed her, needed her, loved her. And just when he saw her silhouette stepping out through the back hallway door, it happened. A sharp crack echoed through the air. A scream followed. And blood hit the floor. People scattered. Security shouted. The spotlight that once followed Amara now lit up something else: Dylan, collapsed in her arms. The bullet had struck his side - close to his lung. Chloe stood several feet away, the gun still warm in her hand, her face pale with disbelief. "I didn't mean to... I thought it was her," she muttered. Amara stared at her, not with fear... but sorrow. "You were willing to kill for a man who never even chose you." Chloe dropped the gun and fell to her knees. The hospital waiting room was cold. Too white. Too quiet. Amara sat in the corner, hands trembling, hair pulled into a messy bun. The news had already broken. "Celebrity Chef Shot Outside Power Summit." Paparazzi swarmed the building. But none of that mattered. Only one thing mattered: Would he live? She hadn't spoken to him in weeks. She'd built walls so high even her pain couldn't climb them. And yet... when he was bleeding in her arms, all of it melted. She'd screamed his name like she still loved him. Because maybe... she did. Twelve hours later, the doctor stepped out. "He made it. He's stable. He's awake." Amara stood quickly. "Can I see him?" The doctor smiled. "He's been asking for you." Deleon looked pale, but alive. Tubes and machines surrounded him, but his eyes those deep, stubborn, arrogant eyes lit up the second she entered. "Hey," he croaked, his voice hoarse. She sat beside him, struggling not to cry. "I thought I lost you," she whispered. He chuckled weakly. "You left me way before the bullet hit." She looked away. "I deserved it," he added. "All of it." She said nothing, staring at his bandaged side. "I hurt you. Betrayed you. Mocked your worth. And after everything... you still held me when I was dying." Her voice trembled. "You were my husband." "Still am," he whispered. "If you'll let me be." Silence fell. Then, slowly, Amara reached The hospital room was quiet. Sterile walls. The steady beep of machines. The scent of antiseptic clinging to the air like ghosts of what had happened. Dylan had been moved out of intensive care. The bullet hadn't taken his life, but it had taken a piece of him physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The doctors said he was lucky. He wasn't sure if "lucky" was the word. What he knew was this: that moment on the ground, blood pouring from his side, he saw one face before everything blurred. Amara. The woman he betrayed. The woman he doubted. The woman he now wished he had truly seen long before the world did. And here she was now. Amara sat by the window, legs crossed, dressed in a soft grey sweater and black jeans, her hair tied up in a bun without effort. No press. No glam. No cameras. No emerald dresses. Just her. The real her. She held a paperback in her hands, half-read, but her eyes weren't on the words. They were on the rain. "You're quiet today," Dylan murmured, his voice low and a little raspy from the oxygen mask he had just removed an hour earlier. Amara turned, blinked like she had just returned from a faraway place. A soft smile danced across her lips. "I've said enough to the world lately. I figured I'd give my voice a rest." He managed a dry chuckle. "They're calling you the queen of African business now. Your Forbes cover is everywhere." "Let them talk," she replied, brushing a loose curl from her face. "They're late to the story." Dylan stared at her, taking in every inch of the woman he used to call "just his wife." He shook his head lightly. "I'm proud of you, you know?" Amara blinked. "It took a gunshot wound for you to say that?" Dylan laughed then winced from the stab of pain in his side. "I guess I needed to almost die to finally wake up." She stood and walked to the side of the bed. Her hand found his warm, steady. "I don't want you to die," she said quietly. "Even after everything, I... I don't want that." He swallowed. His eyes softened. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. For everything. For not seeing you. For making you small when you were always... colossal. For cheating. For not listening. For treating you like you were disposable when you were the one person who truly stayed." Her gaze didn't falter. She reached up, placed a finger gently over his lips. "I know," she whispered. His jaw clenched as he turned his face slightly. Shame was heavier than the bandage on his chest. "I don't expect you to forgive me." "I already did," she said, her voice steady. "The moment I saw you bleeding out on that pavement. Everything I held against you just... melted away." He looked at her, almost in disbelief. "So what now? What do we do with the mess we made?" She took a long breath. "We rebuild," she said. "Brick by brick. One honest day at a time. No lies. No secrets. Just truth." His heart, stitched and scarred, beat a little faster. "You'd give me that chance?" Amara squeezed his hand. "I'll give us that chance." Two Months Later... The Royal Hall in London was filled with an audience unlike any Amara had faced before - presidents, ambassadors, Fortune 100 CEOs, students, professors, activists, artists. The Global Power Summit wasn't just a conference. It was a statement. She walked on stage in her signature emerald green dress, but this time there was something even more commanding than her outfit - it was her presence. She stood tall. Unshaken. Not the silent wife they had once overlooked. Not the woman they pitied in gossip columns. But Amara Monroe a force of brilliance, elegance, and strength. As she took her place behind the podium, silence fell across the room. She began: "We talk about love like it's always flowers and kisses. We sell this fantasy of perfect romance. But love... love is sacrifice. It's pain. It's patience. It's forgiving someone even when they never deserved your grace." "I lost myself in a marriage. Then I lost the marriage. But in that fire, I found myself. I found the version of me I had buried to make others feel tall. And strangely... when I stopped chasing validation, love found me again." "Not the perfect kind. Not fairy-tale love. But real love. Honest love. Scarred but standing." The applause started slowly. Then grew into a standing ovation. People cried. People cheered. And in the front row, wearing a tailored grey suit and a quiet expression of awe, Dylan clapped with tears in his eyes. That night, back in London, they took a quiet walk through Hyde Park. No paparazzi. No assistants. No chauffeurs. Just Amara and Dylan. Two souls who had burned, broken, and somehow healed. The wind rustled gently through the trees. A few stars peeked from the sky above. "I never thought we'd get here," Deleon said softly. Amara glanced at him, her arm brushing his. "I did." He turned. "You did?" She nodded. "Because I always knew who I married even when you didn't." Dylan stopped. Looked at her with eyes no longer clouded by ego, pride, or insecurity. "And who did you marry?" Amara smiled that deep, knowing smile that only comes from surviving everything and still choosing to love. "A foolish man," she said. "With a beautiful heart. Who finally learned how to love." He took her hand gently. "This time, I'm not letting go." She looked at him, eyes glistening. "This time... I'm not hiding anymore." They stood under the stars. Together. Stronger. Scarred. And real. Not perfect. But whole. The hospital room was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peaceful kind the kind that echoed. A silence that reminded you that you were still alive... barely. The soft, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor seemed louder than it should've been. The sterile walls, the stifling scent of antiseptic, and the filtered air pressing against Dylan's chest all made it feel like he was trapped in a space between worlds. He wasn't in intensive care anymore but he might as well have been. His body ached in places he couldn't name. The bullet had missed his heart by a breath. One inch. That's what the doctor had said. One inch to the left, and there would have been no recovery. No coma. No visitors. No more second chances. But God or fate, or karma, or maybe just cruel irony had kept him here. And for what? To lay in this bed, broken, bruised, watching the steady rain blur against the windowpane like a bad dream. It wasn't just the wound on his side that hurt. It was the heaviness in his chest - the knowledge that the woman who once loved him had been ready to walk away forever. And he had given her every reason to. The door creaked. Amara stepped in. Not the Amara the world now bowed to. Not the emerald-dressed mogul on magazine covers. This was his Amara dressed in a soft grey sweater and black jeans, her natural curls pulled into a bun, no earrings, no makeup, no entourage. Just her. And even now - even after everything - she stole his breath. She didn't speak at first. She just walked to the window, her arms folded as she watched the sky mourn with them. It had been raining every day since the shooting. As if the heavens were trying to rinse away everything that had come before. Dylan turned his head slightly, wincing. "You're quiet today," he said, his voice hoarse and raw, like gravel sliding down a dry throat. Amara blinked slowly, as though waking from a trance. Her eyes, still as intense as the day they met, shifted toward him. "I've said enough to the world lately," she replied, her voice calm. "Figured I'd let silence do the talking for a while." He tried to chuckle, but it hurt. Everywhere. "They're calling you the queen of African business now," he said. "Your Forbes cover is everywhere." She shrugged, brushing a curl from her face. "Let them talk. They're late to the story." He stared at her for a long moment - not just looking at her, but finally seeing her. Every inch of her. The fire in her eyes. The calm in her strength. The grace in her silence. "I'm proud of you," he said, the words catching on the edge of his throat. She raised an eyebrow. "It took a gunshot wound for you to say that?" Dylan laughed, then winced in pain. "Apparently, I needed to almost die to finally wake up." She walked to his bedside slowly, like someone unsure if the person lying there was still real. "I don't want you to die," she whispered. The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was sacred. "Even after everything," she continued, "I... I don't want that." His eyes shimmered. Not from pain - not the physical kind, at least. "I wanted to say I'm sorry," he began. "For everything. For not seeing you. For making you small when you were always... colossal. For cheating. For listening to everyone but you. For assuming I was the one carrying us, when the truth is... you were holding me the whole time." She didn't interrupt. Didn't correct. Didn't rush to fill the space. She just looked at him. Then reached up and gently placed a finger to his lips. "I know." He turned his face away slightly, unable to bear the weight of her forgiveness. "I don't expect you to forgive me," he murmured. "I already did," she said, calm and steady. "The moment I saw you bleeding on that pavement... everything I held against you melted away." He looked at her then, really looked. "So what now?" he asked. "What do we do with the mess we made?" She took a long breath. "We rebuild," she said. "Brick by brick. One honest day at a time." "No lies?" he asked. "No secrets," she added. He reached for her hand. "You'd give me that chance?" She squeezed it. "I'll give us that chance."