The following days passed like slow rain—soft, persistent, impossible to ignore.
Ayla didn't ask Leo where he went during the day.Leo didn't ask Ayla how she was sleeping.They moved through the penthouse like strangers with a shared secret.
But tension lingered in the air like the scent of something burnt.
Ayla had barely spoken since Adelina's visit.Not because she was angry.Because she was tired—of fighting for space in a life that wasn't hers.
✧
It started with small things.
A bouquet of white jasmine on the kitchen counter. Ayla's favorite.
Then, a mug of warm ginger tea placed silently beside her as she read a book on the couch. No words. Just a quiet offering.
Then came the playlist.
One evening, Ayla entered the living room to find soft instrumental music playing through the speakers—calm piano, warm strings. The kind of music she used to listen to when she studied late into the night.
Leo was nowhere to be seen. But the gesture remained.
She wanted to ignore it. But it tugged at her.
He was trying. In his way.
✧
Then came the envelope.
One morning, a thick folder appeared on the dining table.
Curious, Ayla opened it.
Inside were photos. Papers. Notes.
A detailed birth plan. Hospital options. Prenatal classes. Even a list of names.
He'd done research. Real, thoughtful, time-consuming research.
At the bottom of the stack, a sticky note in clean, masculine handwriting:
"You don't owe me anything.But I want to be part of this.— L"
Ayla pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling.
✧
That night, as she stepped into the hallway, she found Leo's door slightly ajar. A glow spilled out from the room.
She paused.
Then knocked softly.
He looked up from his laptop, surprised.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
Leo blinked. "Of course."
His bedroom was far less sterile than the rest of the penthouse—books stacked on shelves, a suit jacket tossed carelessly on the chair, a photograph of a younger boy with wide eyes and a crooked smile on the desk.
She noticed it instantly.
"Who's that?" she asked.
Leo turned slowly. His face changed—like a curtain being drawn back.
"My brother," he said. "Rayhan. He's twenty-two now."
Ayla stepped closer. "I didn't know you had a sibling."
"I don't talk about him much." A beat. "Rayhan's... on the spectrum. Nonverbal. But smart. Loves music. He's the only person who doesn't care that I run an empire."
There was a softness in his voice she'd never heard before.
"Where is he now?"
"With our mother. They live outside the city. I send support, but... I haven't visited in months."
"Why not?"
Leo's jaw tightened. "Because every time I go there, she looks at me like I'm a disappointment."
Ayla blinked. "Why would she think that?"
"Because I became him."
The words dropped heavy in the air.
"My father," he said. "He controlled everything. He taught me to be ruthless. And I was stupid enough to believe it was the only way to survive."
Ayla sat down beside him, the silence between them no longer cold.
"You're not him, Leo."
He looked at her then—really looked. Tired. Raw. Unmasked.
"Sometimes I wonder if it's too late to stop being like him."
She placed a hand gently over his.
"It's not."
✧
Later that week, Leo did something unexpected.
He canceled his Friday meetings.
And took Ayla with him.
They drove out of the city in silence, toward a modest house surrounded by trees and birdsong. And when they arrived, a young man came sprinting toward the car—arms outstretched, bare feet hitting the dirt.
"Rayhan," Leo called softly, stepping out of the car.
The boy wrapped his arms tightly around Leo's waist, swaying side to side.
Leo closed his eyes and hugged back—without hesitation.
Ayla stood frozen, watching it all.
And in that moment, she saw the man beneath the mask.
Not the CEO.
Not the billionaire.
Not the cold, calculating strategist.
Just Leo. A brother. A son. A man trying—desperately—to be better.
✧
As they drove home that evening, Ayla rested her head lightly against the window.
Leo spoke first.
"I don't expect forgiveness. I just want a chance to make this... right."
She didn't answer right away.
But she reached across the console and gently touched his hand.
And for Leo Darmawan, that touch was louder than any 'I forgive you' could ever be.
To be continued...