Damian had never thought of forever with anyone.
But with Amara, he found himself wondering how her laughter would sound in the morning, how her curls would look spread across his pillow for a lifetime. She was quiet strength and wounded light, and somehow, she made his fractured heart feel whole.
That morning, he asked her to walk with him through the garden.
"Do you ever think about what's next?" he asked as they strolled beneath the orange blossoms.
Amara blinked. "Next?"
"After this. After cleaning floors and running from ghosts."
She gave a sad smile. "People like me don't get after."
"You do now," he said, stopping to face her. "I don't care where you came from. I care about who you are with me."
Her breath caught. She had heard lies before — men promising the moon, then using her silence against her. But Damian didn't make promises. He made space.
And that scared her more than anything.
Inside the house, Zina watched them from the balcony.
They looked happy. Too happy.
Amara had said nothing wrong, done nothing out of place — but something inside Zina itched, something she couldn't name. It was like her heart remembered what her brain still refused to reveal.
She clenched her jaw and turned away.
That night, Damian cooked dinner himself — something simple. Pasta, red wine, laughter. Amara hadn't laughed in so long, her ribs ached from it. They danced in the kitchen, music low, lights soft.
"Stay with me," he whispered into her ear.
Her heart stuttered.
"Tonight?"
"No. Stay… for real."
Her lips trembled. "You don't know all of me."
"Then let me learn."
Later, they kissed again — this time without rain or fear. She clung to him, unafraid, as he carried her to his room. Their clothes fell like petals to the floor.
He touched her slowly, reverently. Kissed each scar like a vow. Whispered her name like a prayer.
Amara gave herself to him completely — not because she had to, but because for once, she wanted to be seen, to be known, to be loved.
Their bodies moved in rhythm, their moans swallowed by candlelight and the soft thrum of want and wonder.
Outside the room, Zina passed the door on her way to the study.
Then she heard it.
The soft sounds. The name — "Amara" — whispered from Damian's lips like something sacred.
She stopped cold.
A sudden flash cut through her mind — a hallway. Screams. A girl's face turning in fear. That face.
Her knees weakened.
The glass in her hand fell — shattered.
But no one heard her cry over the sound of Damian loving Amara like she was the only woman left in the world.
End of Episode 8