Chapter 3

The world adored a good comeback story.

And Siena Hart—effervescent, scandalously poised, dressed like she had never left the spotlight—was every media outlet’s golden girl again.

The headlines wrote themselves:

“Siena Lee Returns as the Face of Hart Luxe.”

“Aiden Hart and Siena Lee: Is the Past Reigniting?”

“The Power Couple Reborn: Fire and Ice on the Runway.”

Social media buzzed. Edits of their old magazine covers resurfaced. Paparazzi caught the moment she reached out to straighten Aiden’s lapel during the launch—her fingers lingering. Aiden had smiled. Genuinely.

That was enough to send the internet spiraling.

And Clara?

Clara watched it all from her hotel room in Tokyo, twelve floors up, surrounded by sleek walls and automated silence. The city shimmered outside the glass, but her world had grown very quiet.

She didn’t need the volume on. The images were enough.

Siena in scarlet. Aiden in black. Their chemistry—undeniable.

She sipped from the paper cup of vending machine coffee she hadn’t even wanted. It had grown cold.

Behind her, the door slammed open.

“Tell me you haven’t been doom-scrolling for two hours.”

Clara didn’t even flinch. “Hi, Em.”

Em strode in with the kind of fury only a best friend could justify, her trench coat still flapping behind her and her boots echoing across the minimalist flooring.

She tossed her handbag on the bed. “Clara, this isn’t just heartbreak. It’s emotional warfare and you’re unarmed.”

“I’m fine,” Clara murmured, scrolling past a photo of Siena and Aiden laughing on stage.

“Fine?” Em flopped onto the bed like she was auditioning for a tragic drama. “You’re watching your husband re-fall in love with his ex-fiancée in ultra HD. Meanwhile, I just spent twenty minutes arguing with a taxi driver about coins.”

Clara managed a tiny smile. “You always exaggerate.”

“I always care. Which is why I’m about to roast Siena to ash, and then maybe throw Aiden off a building. Lovingly.”

“Please don’t.”

Em sat up, eyes blazing. “That woman showed up at the brand launch looking like a Vogue cover, and your husband looked at her like she personally invented oxygen. And you’re sitting here drinking… what is this? Dirt water?”

“It’s coffee.”

“It’s betrayal in a cup.”

Clara finally laughed. Just a little.

Em leaned back, softening. “You really okay?”

Clara didn’t answer.

Another notification lit up her screen. A headline:

“Clara Hart absent from campaign launch—source says the wife was ‘unavailable for comment.’”

The world was painting her as the afterthought. The placeholder.

Clara turned off her phone and set it on the table like it had never mattered.

“I knew what I was to him when I said yes,” she said quietly.

“That doesn’t mean you deserve to be forgotten.”

Clara’s smile was steady, heartbreakingly calm. “He never promised me love, Em. He promised me a name, a home, and... stability. I never asked for more.”

“But you wanted more.”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked slightly. “But I learned not to expect it.”

Em stared at her. “Clara, you’re not a statue. You don’t just stand beside a man until he notices you don’t blink.”

She shook her head. “He was broken when she left. I just... I wanted to keep him standing.”

“And now?”

Clara took a breath, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Now, I think he’s standing just fine—without me.”

Em exhaled and stood, walking to the window. “I swear, if I had access to a helicopter and a bag of flour, I’d be air-dropping sabotage all over that launch party.”

Clara blinked. “Flour?”

“Symbolism,” Em said, waving vaguely. “Or chaos. Honestly, I just want her hair to frizz.”

They both laughed. It wasn’t long, but it felt real.

“Look,” Em said, folding her arms. “You’ve always loved quietly. But if he doesn’t notice you now—now, when the whole world is watching him fall for a past ghost—then maybe it’s time he learns what it feels like when you’re not quietly loving him from the corners.”

Clara’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I don’t think he’d notice. I’m not a storm like Siena.”

“No,” Em agreed. “You’re an earthquake. Quieter. But far more dangerous.”

That night, after Em had passed out on the couch muttering curses about red dresses and bad men, Clara stood alone on the balcony.

The Tokyo skyline pulsed beneath her, a living, breathing reminder that life moved on whether or not you were ready.

She checked her phone one last time.

No new messages.

Nothing from Aiden.

She hadn’t expected one.

Still, it stung.

Back in Seoul

Aiden Hart hated long nights.

The afterparty had thinned out hours ago. The applause, the congratulations, the flashing lights—it had all blurred together into a numb noise. He’d stood next to Siena, smiled for the cameras, answered the inevitable questions.

And now?

Now the silence in his penthouse pressed in like guilt.

He loosened his tie. Siena’s perfume still clung to his collar. Light, floral. Distracting.

She had hugged him before leaving.

“It’s nice to be close to you again,” she’d whispered.

And he’d smiled.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, he kept searching for quieter eyes. Softer ones.

Clara’s.

He hadn’t heard from her all day. No texts. No photos from her hotel window. No "Good luck" before the launch.

He unlocked his phone. Opened her chat.

Typed: Are you okay?

Deleted.

Typed: Did you see the launch?

Deleted.

Typed: I miss you.

Deleted.

He set the phone down with a frustrated sigh and walked to the kitchen.

There was still leftover soup she’d made the night before her flight. Tomato basil. She always remembered that was the only thing he ate when his nerves got bad.

He hadn’t touched it.

He looked at the cold container and felt the distance like a weight in his chest.

Siena had always burned hot and fast. A wildfire of love, drama, laughter, tears.

Clara, though—Clara was quiet spring rain. Unnoticed, until the absence of it turned the world dry.

And right now? His world felt parched.

In Tokyo, Clara lay in the hotel bed, eyes open.

She thought of Aiden. Of his silence. Of the way he’d looked at Siena—not like a man falling again, but like one remembering how it felt to fly.

She would never be flight. She had always known that.

But she had hoped—naively, perhaps—that being solid ground would matter someday.

Her pillow was cold. The other side of the bed untouched.

And for the first time in three years, she let herself whisper into the dark:

“I don’t think he’ll come looking for me.”