Chapter 7

The Kyte mansion stood silent beneath the fading gold of sunset, its towering windows glowing softly against the darkening sky. The long driveway curved through rows of trimmed hedges and dead-still fountains, every inch of the estate polished into perfection.

At the front entrance, Sirah stood beside Savash, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

She had been restless all day.

Every sound made her look toward the gates.

Every passing minute tightened something inside her chest.

After eighteen years, her son was finally coming home.

Savash appeared calmer, but Sirah knew him too well to believe it. His posture was too rigid, his gaze too focused on the driveway ahead.

Then headlights appeared through the gates.

Sirah’s breath caught.

A sleek black car rolled slowly toward the mansion before stopping at the entrance.

For one brief second, neither of them moved.

Then the back door opened.

Azlan stepped out.

The years had changed him completely.

He was taller somehow, broader, sharper around the edges. Dressed in black from head to toe, he looked less like someone returning home and more like someone arriving to claim territory. His presence alone seemed to shift the air around him.

Sirah forgot everything else.

The distance.

The silence.

The fear.

“Azlan.”

Her voice broke with emotion as she hurried down the steps toward him.

Before he could react, she wrapped her arms around him tightly.

For a second, Azlan stood still in surprise.

Then, slowly, one arm came around her back.

“Mother.”

Sirah closed her eyes at the sound of his voice.

Older now.

Deeper.

But still hers.

“You finally came home,” she whispered.

When she pulled back, tears were already shining in her eyes.

And then she saw her.

A young woman stepped gracefully out of the car behind him.

Tall.

Beautiful.

Elegant in the effortless way expensive women often were.

Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her blue eyes were bright beneath the fading evening light. She wore a fitted cream coat and heels that clicked softly against the stone pathway as she approached Azlan’s side naturally, comfortably.

Sirah blinked in surprise.

The girl smiled politely and extended her hand.

“Hello, Mrs. Kyte. I’m Lily.”

Her accent was soft and refined.

Azlan slipped one hand casually into his pocket.

“My girlfriend.”

Sirah stared for a moment before recovering.

“Oh.”

Something unexpected stirred inside her.

Relief.

Lily was beautiful.

Sophisticated.

Confident.

The kind of woman who matched Azlan perfectly.

For the first time in years, Sirah allowed herself to think maybe—just maybe—life had chosen a different path for him.

Savash stepped forward and shook Lily’s hand politely.

“Welcome to the Kyte estate.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kyte.”

Azlan glanced toward the mansion.

“You still keep the lights too bright.”

Savash almost smiled.

“And you still complain too much.”

The tension eased slightly as servants carried luggage inside.

Sirah walked beside Lily into the house, studying her quietly.

Lily spoke easily, comfortably, slipping into conversation with natural charm. She laughed at Azlan’s dry remarks, touched his arm casually when speaking, and Azlan allowed it without irritation.

That alone stunned Sirah.

She had never seen her son tolerate closeness so effortlessly.

.

.

.

Breakfast was quieter.

Sunlight poured through the tall dining room windows, illuminating the polished silverware and untouched coffee cups spread across the table.

Savash sat at the head.

Sirah beside him.

Across from them sat Azlan and Lily.

Lily looked perfectly at ease in the intimidating dining room, sipping coffee while listening to Azlan speak about a business deal overseas.

Then the dining room doors opened.

Feriha entered carrying a breakfast tray.

The room changed instantly.

She wore a pale green dress that fell softly around her figure. Unlike Lily’s sharp elegance, Feriha looked delicate and almost painfully innocent. Her body was softer, shorter, fuller in comparison to Lily’s tall frame. Long dark curls spilled messily over her shoulders, untamed despite obvious effort, and her wide green eyes stayed lowered carefully toward the tray in her hands.

There was something strangely untouched about her.

Not childish exactly.

But sheltered.

Protected too long from the world.

She approached the table quietly.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said softly.

Lily looked up casually—

Then blinked.

“Well,” she said with a surprised smile, “your servants are surprisingly beautiful here.”

The words landed awkwardly in the silence.

Feriha froze instantly.

Savash answered before anyone else could.

“She’s not a servant.”

Lily looked confused.

Savash’s voice remained calm.

“This is Feriha.”

A pause.

“She’s like a daughter to me.”

Feriha lowered her eyes further.

“Good morning.”

Lily smiled politely.

“Oh—I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Feriha murmured quickly.

Azlan hadn’t spoken a word.

He was looking at Feriha.

Really looking at her.

Not the child he remembered.

Not the crying baby his parents forced into the house years ago.

A woman.

Soft-faced.

Round-cheeked.

With green eyes that still carried nervous innocence inside them.

She looked nothing like Lily.

Lily was polished beauty.

Feriha looked untouched.

pure. Like a sacred poem

Azlan’s gaze lingered too long.

Lily noticed immediately.

Her smile faded slightly.

She nudged his arm beneath the table.

“Stop staring.”

Azlan looked away without expression.

Feriha quickly placed the dishes down, clearly uncomfortable beneath the attention.

Sirah watched everything silently.

The tension.

Azlan’s stillness.

Savash observing all of it with quiet calculation.

Something twisted uneasily in her stomach.

Breakfast continued stiffly until Azlan suddenly set down his coffee cup.

The soft clink echoed through the room.

“I’m not marrying Feriha.”

The words came without warning.

Direct.

Cold.

Feriha went completely still.

Lily blinked in surprise before a blush slowly spread across her face.

Azlan leaned back in his chair calmly.

“I like Lily.”

Lily looked down shyly, smiling faintly.

Across the table, Feriha felt something inside her collapse.

Not because she loved Azlan.

She barely knew him.

But because for as long as she could remember, her future had been spoken around her like certainty.

Azlan.

Azlan.

Azlan.

Every lesson.

Every correction.

Every expectation.

And now, hearing him reject her so easily in front of everyone—

it hurt anyway.

Sirah instinctively looked toward Savash, expecting anger.

A fight.

Disappointment.

But Savash simply picked up his coffee.

“As you wish.”

The room fell silent.

Even Azlan looked surprised.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re not going to argue?”

Savash shrugged once.

“You’re thirty years old. You can make your own decisions.”

Sirah stared at her husband in confusion.

This wasn’t right.

For eighteen years, Savash had built his entire world around this plan.

So why was he calm?

Why wasn’t he furious?

Feriha looked equally confused, though relief and heartbreak warred visibly across her face.

Savash took another slow sip of coffee.

But beneath the table, unseen by everyone else, his fingers tapped once against the armrest.

Patient.

Measured.

Like a man who was not losing control—

only waiting.