TOO LATE, MY LOVE

Debt

Aitana doesn't sleep. She lies in bed, her body still humming from Pedri's kiss, her mind racing in endless circles. The photograph of Alessia sits on the nightstand, face up, accusing. The divorce papers are still scattered on the study floor, half-signed, abandoned.

At dawn, she hears Chloe moving in the kitchen. The smell of coffee drifts through the penthouse. For a moment, she could almost pretend this is a normal morning. But nothing about her life is normal anymore.

She swings her legs out of bed and walks to the window. The city stretches below, grey and indifferent. Somewhere out there, her father is living his quiet life, unaware that his daughter is dying. She should call him. She should tell him about the cancer. But how do you tell the only person who ever loved you that you're running out of time?

A knock sounds at the bedroom door.

"Aitana?" Chloe's voice is soft, hesitant. "Can I come in?"

She doesn't answer. Chloe comes in anyway, carrying two mugs of coffee. She sets one on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted.

"We need to talk," Chloe says.

"About what?" Aitana's voice is flat. "About how you left when I was eight? About how you never called, never wrote, never looked back?"

Chloe flinches. "I deserve that. I deserve all of it. But I didn't come here to make excuses. I came here because I heard about your father. And about Pedri."

Aitana's head snaps around. "What about my father?"

Chloe's face drains of color. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

Chloe sets her mug down with shaking hands. "Aitana, your father was in a car accident last night. He's in the hospital. They say he's in a coma."

The words hit like a wrecking ball. Aitana's knees buckle. She grabs the windowsill to keep from falling. The room spins.

"No," she whispers. "No, no, no."

"I'm so sorry," Chloe says, reaching for her. "I thought someone would have called you. I thought—"

But Aitana is already moving. She grabs her coat, shoves her feet into shoes, and runs for the door. The elevator takes forever. She slams the stairwell door open instead and flies down the stairs, her heart pounding, her lungs burning. Her legs are still weak from the chemo and the fall last night, but she forces them to move.

The hospital is chaos. Nurses rush past. Machines beep. A doctor stops her in the hallway, his face grim.

"Miss Bonmatí? Your father is in the ICU. He was in a single-car accident on the highway. He lost control and hit a guardrail. He's been unconscious since they brought him in."

"Will he wake up?" Her voice is desperate, childlike.

The doctor hesitates. "It's too early to say. The brain swelling is significant. We're doing everything we can."

Everything we can. The words echo in her skull. She pushes past him, running down the corridor until she finds the ICU. Through the glass, she sees him—her father, the only person who ever truly loved her—lying still and pale, tubes and wires snaking from his body. Machines beep and hiss around him. His eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls with mechanical rhythm.

Aitana presses her palms against the glass. A sob tears from her throat.

"Dad," she whispers. "Please. Don't leave me too."

She doesn't know how long she stands there. Minutes. Hours. The world blurs around her. At some point, a nurse brings her a chair. She sits. She waits. She prays to a God she isn't sure she believes in.

Chloe arrives later, slipping into the waiting area with a cup of tea she tries to press into Aitana's hands. Aitana doesn't take it. Chloe sits beside her in silence, her presence heavy with unspoken apologies. She says she will return in the morning, that she needs to check on her hotel room, that she will be back. Aitana barely hears her. She simply nods, her eyes never leaving the glass that separates her from her father.

And then she hears footsteps behind her.

"You should have told me."

The voice is cold, familiar. She doesn't turn around. She doesn't need to.

Pedri stands behind her, his reflection ghostly in the ICU glass. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are fixed on her father's still form.

"Told you what?" she asks, her voice hollow.

"About the cancer. About your father. About everything."

She turns then, slowly. "Why would I tell you anything? You made it clear I'm nothing to you. A debt to be collected. A punishment."

Pedri's jaw tightens. He steps closer, until he's standing beside her. They stand side by side, facing the glass, watching the machines keep her father alive.

"Your family destroyed mine," he says quietly. "Your father's company built a building that collapsed. My sister was inside. She was seven years old."

Aitana closes her eyes. She knows this story. She has known it for years, ever since the old housekeeper whispered it to her in a hushed voice. But hearing it from Pedri's mouth, in his cold, measured voice, makes it feel new. Makes it feel like a fresh wound.

"I know," she whispers. "And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I was a child too. I had nothing to do with it."

Pedri is silent for a long moment. Then he speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I know that too. But it didn't matter. I needed someone to blame. And you were there. Innocent. Beautiful. The perfect target."

She turns to look at him. His face is still unreadable, but his eyes are wet. Pedri Miller, the man who never cries, is crying.

"Why are you telling me this now?" she asks.

He turns to face her. For the first time in three years, he looks at her like she's human. Like she matters.

"Because I'm tired," he says. "I'm tired of hating you. I'm tired of pretending I don't feel anything when I look at you. I'm tired of losing everyone I care about."

He reaches out, slow and hesitant, and brushes a tear from her cheek. The touch is gentle, almost tender. It is nothing like the bruising kisses they've shared before. It is something new. Something fragile.

"You're not going to lose me," she says, before she can stop herself.

The words hang in the air between them. Pedri's hand lingers on her cheek. His eyes search hers, raw and unguarded.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he says.

And then his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, glances at the screen. His face changes—the softness vanishes, replaced by ice.

"It's Alessia," he says.

And every wall he just lowered slams back into place.