Amara POV
As the soft glow of the console faded, Amara sank into the vast, empty bed. The silence in the room pressed heavier than any crown. In the stillness, her mind drifted—unbidden, unstoppable—to memories of Chris.
She remembered the night of their wedding, the way his eyes held both fire and tenderness. How, when no one was watching, he kissed her with a hunger that felt like a promise — a promise to rule not just an empire but her heart.
She recalled the quiet moments after the celebrations, when they lay tangled in the sheets, his strong arms wrapped around her like a shield from the world's chaos. The way he whispered her name, "Amara," with such reverence that it made her feel invincible.
She remembered how he once told her, low and serious, "No matter what happens, you are my strength. And I will always be yours."
That night—so vivid in her mind—when he lifted her gently to the bed, the slow, deliberate way he traced the line of her jaw, as if memorizing every detail. The weight of his hand on her waist grounding her like no throne ever could.
She smiled faintly through her tears, the warmth of those moments still flickering inside her chest.
But now, those memories were all she had.
Chris — the man who once held her world in his palms — was gone. And with him, the certainty of tomorrow.
She pressed her palm over her heart, as if to keep that flame alive.
"Come back to me," she whispered, voice cracking.
In the quiet, she promised herself she would wait. No matter how long.
Because love wasn't just a memory. It was her weapon. Her reason.
And it was the only thing stronger than fear.