The CEO's Regret: You made me your lie, I become your Loss-Chapter 73: You are perfect

The heavy iron gates of the Pedro mansion groaned shut, echoing the finality of the day. Julian watched Amara walk toward the front door, her silhouette framed by the amber glow of the porch light. She looked fragile, exhausted by a grace that seemed too heavy for one person to carry.

After ensuring she was safely inside, Julian finally pulled away. But the silence of the drive was short-lived.

Barely an hour had passed before the screech of tires pierced the quiet of the estate. Julian burst through the foyer, his face a mask of pale agitation.

Madam Pedro, draped in a silk robe and holding a cooling cup of tea, looked up with a sharp frown. "Julian? I thought you’d gone home. Why are you back at this hour?"

Julian didn’t offer a greeting. His breath came in shallow hitches. "Where is Amara? Is she awake?"

"She’s exhausted, Julian. She finally went to sleep," Madam Pedro replied, her voice tightening with a sudden, intuitive dread. "What has happened?"

Julian leaned against the heavy mahogany table, his knuckles white. "The hospital just called. It’s over. Elara is gone."

The air in the room seemed to vanish. Madam Pedro went still, the porcelain cup trembling in her hand.

Elara, the woman who had spent years weaving a web of malice. The woman who had looked Amara in the eye and pushed her off a jagged cliffside, leaving her to break against the rocks. Elara had tried to extinguish Amara’s life, yet here was the bitter irony: Amara was the only one who had been praying for Elara to wake up.

"She’s going to break," Julian whispered, his voice cracking. "Even after the cliff... even after nearly dying at that woman’s hands, Amara was the one sitting by her bed. She felt guilty for her state."

They both looked toward the grand staircase leading to Amara’s room. Amara was, by far, the purest soul they had ever known, a woman who answered cruelty with compassion and attempted to heal the very hands that had scarred her.

Madam Pedro set her tea down with a hollow clack. "She spent all evening blaming herself for Elara’s condition. She truly believed there was a chance for her."

"And now?" Julian asked, looking devastated. "How do we tell her that she is dead?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. They knew Amara wouldn’t feel vindicated. She wouldn’t feel safe. She would only feel the crushing weight of a life lost, mourning the very enemy who never would have shed a tear for her.

The tension in the foyer was a living, breathing thing. Amara’s descent down the stairs was slow, her eyes glassy with a mixture of shock and the kind of quiet, steady resolve that often terrified those who loved her.

"I just read it on the internet," she murmured, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

Julian and Madam Pedro exchanged a frantic, silent glance. They had hoped to shield her, to give her a few hours of peace before the reality of Elara’s death became her burden.

"Amara," Julian urged, stepping forward, his voice a low, desperate plea. "You should be in bed. You’ve been through too much."

"Yes, my dear, come on," Madam Pedro added, her tone softening as she hurried over to take Amara’s arm. "Let’s go back to your room. Just lie down, please."

Amara pulled away, not with malice, but with a firm, exhausted finality. "I’m fine, Mama. Julian, we need to go to the hospital. Seren is probably alone. We haven’t been able to trace her father, and she can’t be by herself right now."

Madam Pedro’s expression hardened, her protective instincts flaring. "Amara, that is not your problem. If anything, let Seb go get her. She was his daughter until recently, so let him handle the mess. I know she’s a child, but that girl was raised to hate you. She is a viper in your nest."

Amara shook her head, a soft, sorrowful smile touching her lips. "I raised her, Mother. I did. I can be angry at her, but Seren is still innocent. She has no one. If I turn my back on her now, what does that make me? I can still teach her to be better."

Madam Pedro stepped into her space, her eyes imploring. "I know you mean well, child, but I know better from experience. You cannot heal a child with that level of trauma, not when she has been conditioned to see you as the source of it. It’s impossible, and it’s dangerous."

Julian watched them, caught between the two women who defined his world. He knew the cycle of trauma, a tangled web of inherited pain that often looked like this:

He moved toward Amara, his presence grounding her, and gently swept her up into his arms, carrying her toward the sofa. He didn’t let her protest; he simply sat down, pulling her into his lap so she couldn’t run anywhere.

"I think you both need to calm down," Julian said, his voice cutting through the tension. He looked directly at Amara, his thumb tracing a soothing circle on her wrist. "Seren’s father showed up at the hospital. Shane Martins. He has her now."

Amara went still. "Shane? Is he... is he safe for her?"

"He has a criminal record," Julian admitted, meeting her gaze steadily, "but his mother is a retired teacher. She’s there with him. Seren will be taken care of, she is safe, and she is no longer alone. But Amara, look at me."

He tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his face etched with worry. "You have spent your entire life pouring yourself into other people’s broken pieces. It is time to let someone else carry the weight for a while. You need to take care of yourself."

The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Amara sat cradled in Julian’s lap, her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the walls of the mansion. Julian studied her profile, his heart aching at the fragile, porcelain stillness of her demeanor.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, laden with a lifetime of concern.