Lyla Monroe (Nova Kingsley)
I had just arrived in California, and the sun was shining like it always does—warm, golden, familiar. The weather was definitely better than in New York. It always was.
But for the first time ever… I wasn’t happy to be back.
Usually, I’d step out of that plane, take a deep breath of fresh California air, and feel peace. Home. Safety.
But this time, I just felt lost.
The divorce was supposed to feel like freedom. A win. I wanted a love marriage, not a business agreement, and I knew—deep down—I was never going to get that with Luca.
So I did the right thing. Right?
But the way he let me go? The way he signed those papers and told me to pack up like I was just a guest in his life? Like I didn’t mean a damn thing to him?
That broke my heart more than I thought it would.
I didn’t even know I cared that much until I felt the crack.
Delilah picked me up from the airport. I recognized her van before she even stepped out. She waved excitedly, and I forced a smile as I climbed in.
She drove through the familiar streets until we reached the family Estate—our family’s home tucked in the hills. She had already cooked for me, of course. Her way of comforting without asking questions.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Steele,” she said with a wide grin.
I gave a weak smile and shook my head. “It’s Ms. Kingsley again.”
Her face fell instantly. “Oh no… what happened?”
I sat down at the dining table, the aroma of her chicken and garlic rice filling the room.
“I got divorced,” I said simply. “We’re not together anymore.”
Delilah gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh, Nova… I’m so sorry.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. You know I’ve always wanted a love marriage. That was never going to be Luca.”
Delilah gave me a soft nod, her eyes kind but sad. “I’ll make a bath for you. You can rest there, okay?”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Before heading upstairs, I told her I wanted to visit my parents’ graves. She nodded quietly.
“Do I need to pick flowers for you?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll get them myself.”
I slipped off my heels and walked barefoot to the botanical garden behind the estate. The grass was warm and soft beneath my feet. I found my father’s favorite—red marigolds—and my mother’s white gardenias.
I carried them to the back of the estate where the graves lay side by side under the oak tree. The wind was soft. The sky pale blue.
“Hi, Mom. Dad,” I whispered as I knelt down, placing the flowers gently across the stones. “I’m back in California again.”
I exhaled slowly, the silence wrapping around me like a blanket.
“I got divorced… from Luca.”
I paused, staring at the names engraved in the marble.
“I don’t know why it hurts this much. I know Luca doesn’t love me. I know we weren’t real. But something about the way he looked at me… the way he didn’t fight for me… it stings. I wish you were here. I wish I could ask you what to do.”
I stood slowly and brushed the grass from my legs. “But you raised a strong girl. I’ll figure it out.”
When I got back to the house, Delilah had already run a bath for me—lavender-scented with flower petals floating on top. I slipped into it and let the water hold me while I tried not to think.
Later, after I got dressed in a soft satin robe, I made my way downstairs.
And that’s when I saw him.
“Jonathan?”
He stood in the living room, sipping tea like he owned the place.
“Oh, Nova!” he grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect to see you either.”
He chuckled. “You always had that sharp tongue. So, what are you doing here? Thought you were all wrapped up in New York, playing business Barbie?”
I flinched a little. “I’m here because I… I got divorced.”
Jonathan blinked. “Wait, what? Why?”
“I just… couldn’t be forced into it anymore.”
He frowned. “Forced? But I thought you and Luca—”
I shook my head. “I wanted love, Jonathan. Real love. Not contracts. Not convenience. I worked for him for two years as Lyla, and even then, he barely noticed me. It was all business. All cold. And when things finally felt like they were changing, I remembered—I had already given him the papers. And he signed them like it was nothing.”
Jonathan sat down slowly. “But did you tell him how you felt?”
I looked at him. “What?”
“Did you say you wanted him to fight for you? Did you tell him you loved him? Or did you just hand him a document and expect him to read your mind?”
I swallowed.
“Nova,” he said, voice softer now. “You and Luca… I saw you together. Even when you didn’t see it. You were more than a contract. But both of you? You suck at communicating. You love loud, but you speak quiet.”
That hit me. Hard. Because… he was right. Luca never said what he felt. And neither did I.
And now?
