[LINA]
"T-thanks . . . ." I managed, wrapping both hands around the glass as if it could shield from whatever this was turning into.
I took a sip—too quickly, too much—and nearly coughed.
I forced myself to swallow, even though the milk suddenly felt heavy in my throat. I didn't want to be standing there with him like this.
Not because I didn't want to see him. But because I knew exactly what I'd feel if I stayed too long.
And yet—I didn't go back to my room.
I should have. It would've made sense. I could've sipped the milk alone, gone back to pretending he was just my bodyguard and nothing more.
But instead, I stood there in the kitchen, back straight, eyes averted, quietly drinking.
And waiting.
Dylan leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. The overhead light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, the quiet intensity he always carried like armor. His gaze never left .
The silence grew long and taut.
And then—his voice cut through it, low and abrupt.
"Are you seriously going to marry Daniel?"
The question hit like a slap.
I choked—this ti for real. I coughed into my sleeve, struggling to catch my breath as I stared at him, stunned. My heart stamred in my chest, too loud, too fast. Sample from My Virtual Library Empire—read more on M&VLEMPY&R.
"What?" I rasped, still trying to swallow both the milk and the weight of what he'd just said.
He didn't repeat himself.
Didn't backtrack.
Just looked at , jaw tight, eyes stormy and unreadable.
"I—I never said anything about marriage," I finally managed, setting the half-finished glass down on the counter with trembling fingers. "Where did that even co from?"
"You didn't have to," he said flatly.
His voice was quiet but firm—like he had been holding that question in for too long, and now that it was out, he couldn't take it back. Didn't want to.
"You look at him like you're trying to convince yourself it's real. Your parents talk about weddings and kids, and you just . . . smile. Like you're trying to make it true."
I stared at him, heart pounding.
"You've been watching ?"
"I never stopped."
That silenced .
Because I didn't know what scared more—his words, or how much it affected .
He stepped forward, just one pace, but it closed the air between us.
"What?" I breathed, my heart thudding so loud it almost drowned out my voice. "What are you saying now?"
Dylan's eyes didn't waver. His jaw was tight, his posture stiff with restraint.
"I'm your bodyguard, Lina," he said coldly. "It's my duty to watch you."
And just like that, my heart dropped—dragging my foolish hope with it.
Right. Of course. That's all I ever was to him: a duty. A job.
I felt sothing sharp twist inside —hurt laced with anger—and I clenched the glass tighter in my hand.
"So what if I am going to marry him?" I snapped, glaring up at him. "Like you said—you're just a bodyguard. It's not your place to ask who I choose to marry."
His eyes narrowed. "We've known each other since we were kids, Lina," he said, his voice low, heated. "I've protected you longer than anyone else in your life. Don't I have the right to care about this?"
"Don't," I hissed, voice rising. "Don't twist this into sothing it's not. You were the one who said you didn't want anything more than to be my guard. You drew that line, Dylan. And now, what? You get to cross it just because it's convenient for you?"
The kitchen felt suffocating now, the air between us heavy with everything we weren't saying.
"I'm not playing with you," I added, my voice shaking. "So don't you dare play with ."
His fist curled at his side. "Then just answer the damn question!" he growled.
And I broke.
"Yes!" I shouted, chest heaving. "Yes, I'm going to marry him! Is that what you wanted to hear? Does that make you happy?"
The words echoed through the kitchen like gunshots.
And then—
Silence.
Dylan didn't speak. He didn't move.
His face slowly shifted—not in anger, but sothing else.
It was subtle at first, the way his eyes lost their fire. The way his shoulders dropped, like sothing inside him had snapped, quietly and completely.
For the first ti ever, I saw him—really saw him—break.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was the kind of heartbreak that silenced a room. The kind that made want to take the words back, every last one.
His expression crumbled just enough to let the pain bleed through. And in that mont, he looked like soone who'd just lost a war he never admitted he was fighting.
I took a breath—but it caught in my throat.
Because I had wanted a reaction, hadn't I?
I had wanted him to show sothing, anything real.
But I hadn't expected this.
Not the quiet devastation in his eyes. Not the way he looked at like I'd just torn sothing vital out of him.
And suddenly, I wasn't so sure I'd won anything at all.
"I see . . . ," his voice dipped lower, quieter, like it hurt to ask. Like sothing in him was breaking just by saying it.
And for the first ti in a long ti, I saw it—the flicker behind his walls. The fear. The regret.
And sothing else.
Sothing dangerously close to madness.
"Go back to your room and sleep," he said.
His voice was cold. Flat. Devoid of any of the tension that had burned between us just monts before. Like nothing had happened at all.
Like the argunt, the question, the breaking in his eyes—none of it had existed.
And for a second, I just stood there, frozen, blinking at him as if I'd imagined it all.
Maybe I had.
Because the Dylan standing in front of now wasn't the man whose voice had trembled, whose gaze had flickered with sothing raw and vulnerable.
No, this was the stone-faced soldier again. The untouchable, unshakeable bodyguard who kept everyone—including —at a calculated distance.
Emotionless.
Immovable.
Unreachable.
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