Luca Steele
I hadn’t slept that well in a long time.
The living room was still dim with morning light when I cracked my eyes open. My arm was bent awkwardly beneath me, and I could feel the edge of the carpet digging into my side. But I didn’t care. It was worth it.
Nova had fallen asleep next to me after we danced, her head on my shoulder, her fingers laced with mine.
But when I reached over, the space beside me was empty.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my face. “Nova?” I called out, but there was no answer.
Then I heard the sound of running water. It was faint, echoing from upstairs.
She was in the bath. Probably in her room.
I stood, stretched a bit, and made my way up the grand staircase of her estate. It felt strange being here—not just as a visitor, but as someone she trusted enough to bring into her space again.
Her childhood room was at the end of the hall, and when I pushed the door open, I felt something shift in me.
The room smelled like lavender and vanilla. Soft light poured in through the large bay window. I stepped toward it and stared out. The view overlooked the back gardens—blossoming tulips, a stone path, a distant fountain.
It was peaceful. It was her.
Being back with Nova felt different this time. Like we had stripped away the tension, the contracts, the expectations. This—whatever this was—felt real.
And I was thankful we talked things out.
As I walked around her room, my eyes scanned the vanity table filled with makeup—mostly in cream, beige, soft pastel tones. The drawers were neatly lined with skincare, hair tools, perfume bottles. A row of neatly folded silk scarves and headbands. Her closet door was slightly open and I peeked inside—beige, ivory, soft pinks.
She had a style. Clean, elegant, minimal.
But then, something pulled my attention to the bottom drawer of the vanity.
It was weird. Like a voice inside me was telling me to look. I hesitated at first, not wanting to invade her privacy.
But the pull was too strong.
I knelt down, opened the drawer slowly…
And then I froze. My breath caught.
A black wig. Big, old-fashioned sunglasses. Matte lipstick in a color I had never seen her wear. Ugly, frumpy cardigans folded neatly underneath.
This wasn’t Nova.
This was—
Lyla.
I stared at the wig in my hands. The same stiff-looking one she used to wear every day at work. The glasses I had once rolled my eyes at.
This couldn’t be.
But… could it?
I sat back on my heels, mind racing.
Nova had always known everything about me. My meeting schedules, my sandwich orders, my dislikes. She knew the layout of the office before I ever showed her around. She even knew where I kept my files, which coffee I liked, and what annoyed me most.
And Lyla?
She was there for two years. Quiet. Efficient. She blended in so well I never really saw her. But she always showed up. She always knew.
And I remembered what Lyla had told me when she called: “I’m getting married.”
That same week, my father’s old contract with Carter Kingsley showed up. And then Nova appeared. The timelines matched. The knowledge matched.
The way she looked at me—familiar, even when we were strangers.
She was Lyla.
She had been there all along. Right under my nose.
Just as I stood there, heart pounding, the bathroom door creaked open behind me. I turned, still holding the wig and glasses in my hand.
Nova stood there, wrapped in a robe, her hair wet, eyes wide.
The second our eyes locked, I saw it in her face. Guilt. Fear. And something else… something raw.
“Lyla?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
