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Chapter 49 – What Hurts the Most
Amara's POV
It's been five months.
Five long, dragging, painfully slow months since that night at Arya's dinner table — the last time I was close to Ethan Lantel. The last time I spoke more than two sentences to him without the mask of "assistant" tightening over my mouth like a gag.
Now, everything between us was business. Meetings. Schedules. Coffee runs. Polite nods. "Yes, sir," and "Of course, Mr. Lantel."
I hated it.
I hated the way he looked through me like I was just another name on his payroll. Like we didn't have history. Like I hadn't once let him touch parts of me no one else ever had. Like he didn't take my virginity and then disappear like it meant nothing.
But I didn't let it show.
I wore my red lipstick like armor. I smiled at his clients and took their coats. I typed minutes at meetings and handed him files like my fingers weren't still aching to touch him.
And when he walked past me without sparing a glance — wearing those expensive suits, that smug confidence, that scent I couldn't scrub from my memory — I swallowed it all and pretended I didn't care.
But I did.
God, I did.
And some nights… I couldn't help myself.
I stalked him.
I didn't mean to — not at first. But I followed the breadcrumbs. His name tagged in photos, girls gushing about "E.L." and their secret nights with him. I told myself I was just curious.
Until curiosity turned into a sick habit.
And I saw things I can't unsee.
Photos of him leaving clubs with women who looked like models. Blurry shots of him kissing some brunette in the backseat of a black car. A video — short but clear — of him walking into a hotel lobby with a redhead hanging off his arm, lipstick already smeared.
Once, I even saw him through the glass at his penthouse rooftop bar, laughing with two girls. One of them kissed his neck while the other whispered something in his ear. He didn't push them away. He never does.
And me? I just stood there on the sidewalk like an idiot, the pain clawing up my chest until it sat heavy in my throat.
I should've moved. Looked away. Gone home.
But I stood there too long, too frozen.
I loved him.
Maybe that's the worst part. I didn't mean to. It wasn't supposed to happen. He was a stranger. A one-night decision. A mistake.
But something about him lingered inside me long after he left.
And now? Watching him toss himself into woman after woman, I realized the truth: it wasn't just lust that night. Not for me.
For him? It might've been.
But for me?
It was everything.
I remember the way his hands felt on my skin, how he looked at me like I was something precious — even if it was just for a few hours. How he kissed me with a kind of urgency that felt real.
I held on to that feeling longer than I should have.
And now, every time I see him with someone else, it tears open the same wound.
He doesn't know that every smile I give him is fake. That every morning when I say, "Your 9AM meeting is ready, sir," I'm silently screaming You broke me.
He doesn't know that after I hand him his coffee, I sometimes lock myself in the bathroom just to breathe.
Because I can't quit.
Not the job.
Not the feelings.
Not him.
It's pathetic, I know.
I should walk away. I should find someone else, burn the memory of him out of my body and move on.
But I can't.
I see him every day. Hear his voice. Watch him laugh. Watch him flirt. Watch him kiss women who aren't me.
And it kills me.
He doesn't know that my heart still reacts like it belongs to him. That I have to grip my pen tighter in meetings just to keep from looking at him too long.
And when he smiles at someone else — really smiles — something inside me breaks all over again.
I'm not even mad at him anymore.
I'm just mad at myself.
For hoping. For feeling. For falling.
I told myself I was just another girl to him. Just a body. A night. A regret, maybe.
But no matter how many times I remind myself… it doesn't stop the ache.
The worst part?
Some nights, I wonder if he remembers me at all.
If he ever thinks about that night.
If he ever suspects that the girl behind the assistant badge still dreams about him, still watches from a distance, still wishes — just once — he'd look back.
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