The CEO's Regret: You made me your lie, I become your Loss-Chapter 101: Endless night

Amara didn’t sleep.

Not even for a moment.

The night stretched endlessly, heavy and suffocating, as though time itself had slowed out of respect... or perhaps grief. She sat on the cold floor, her back against the bed, her knees drawn close to her chest, her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her dress like it was the only thing anchoring her to reality.

Julian never left.

He stayed right there beside her, silent, steady, his presence a quiet kind of strength. At some point, he had sat down next to her, his shoulder brushing hers, his hand resting lightly over her clenched fists.

"I’m here," he murmured softly at one point, his voice low, careful, as anything louder might break her. "As long as you need me."

Amara didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she could.

Her throat felt tight, her chest hollow and unbearably full at the same time. She just leaned slightly into him, barely noticeable, but enough. And Julian noticed. He always did.

Hours passed like that.

When morning finally came, it didn’t feel like relief. The pale light that filtered through the curtains felt intrusive... wrong. Like the world had no right to continue.

Julian shifted beside her, glancing toward the window before looking back at her pale, exhausted face.

"Amara," he said gently, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face. "Come on... You need to get up."

She didn’t move.

For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t respond at all.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, she loosened her grip on her dress.

"I can’t," she whispered, her voice cracked and fragile. "If I move... it becomes real."

Julian’s jaw tightened, his eyes softening with something deeper than sympathy.

"It already is," he said quietly. "But you don’t have to face it alone."

There was a long silence.

Then, with careful patience, he slid his arm around her shoulders and helped her to her feet. She swayed slightly, her body weak from the long, sleepless night, but he steadied her immediately.

"I’ve got you," he murmured.

And he did.

He guided her to the bathroom, turning on the shower, adjusting the temperature as it mattered, as normal things could still exist in a world that had just fallen apart.

"Take your time," he told her softly. "I’ll be right here."

Amara nodded faintly, though she wasn’t sure if she believed anything anymore.

The water fell over her in a steady stream, warm against her cold skin, but it didn’t wash anything away. Not the heaviness. Not the ache. Not the memory of standing beside fresh earth, watching them lower her mother into the ground.

She pressed her forehead against the tile, her eyes closing as her breath came unevenly.

"Mom..." she whispered, the word breaking in the middle.

When she stepped out, Julian was still there exactly where he said he would be.

He didn’t say anything.

He simply handed her a towel.

Later, he managed to get her to eat something just a little. A piece of toast, a few sips of tea. It felt like too much and not enough all at once.

The Pedro estate no longer felt like home. It felt... hollow. Like something sacred had been emptied out and abandoned.

The silence wasn’t peaceful; it echoed. Every corner of the house felt too large, too empty, like it was missing its heart.

And then there was the scent. Lilies. Too strong. Too sweet. Too wrong.

It lingered everywhere, clinging to the curtains, the polished floors, the walls... her skin. It wrapped around her like a memory she couldn’t escape, dragging her back to the one place she didn’t want to return to.

A grave.

Amara stood in the middle of the room, her fingers trembling slightly as she inhaled, then exhaled.

In. Out. She was learning. Learning how to breathe again, even if only for a second at a time. Just one breath. Then another.

That was when the door opened.

Amira walked in without knocking, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, the sound slicing through the fragile quiet.

"Amara." Her tone was brisk. Too brisk. Amara didn’t turn.

"There are lawyers downstairs," Amira continued, already moving further into the room. "They want to speak to us." Amara’s fingers curled slightly.

Not now. Not today.

"Come on," Amira added, her voice firm, almost impatient. "We need to go."

Julian’s expression darkened slightly, his gaze shifting toward Amira, but Amira already grabbed Amara out of the room before he could say or do anything.

Amara opened her eyes slowly. Another breath.

Across the room, the lawyers sat in stiff silence, their leather briefcases resting neatly by their polished shoes. Important papers were spread out before them, their edges sharp and unforgiving. Life reduced to ink. To signatures. To decisions that could not be felt.

"The separate wills are quite specific regarding the Pedro Corporation’s succession..."

The lead solicitor’s voice droned on, low and steady, as though this were any other day. As though her world had not just ended.

Amara didn’t hear the rest.

The words blurred together, meaningless, distant like noise coming from underwater. Her chest tightened, each breath shallow, forced. The room felt smaller, heavier, pressing in on her from all sides.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. Mother is gone.

The thought didn’t feel real. It didn’t settle. It just hovered there, sharp, unbearable.

And they were talking about shares. About succession. About who gets what. Something inside her snapped.

She stood up so suddenly the chair scraped harshly against the floor, the sound slicing through the stillness. The delicate black lace on her sleeves trembled, just like her hands.

"I can’t do this." Her voice came out softer than she expected... but it shook.

Not with weakness. With restraint. With everything she was trying and failing to hold in.

"I just..." Her breath hitched, and this time she couldn’t steady it. "I just buried my mother." Silence fell, heavy and absolute.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of them. Not while they sat there with their documents and their detached expressions, ready to turn grief into procedure.

"I don’t care," she continued, her voice breaking now, jagged at the edges. "I don’t care about the money. Or the shares. Or any of this."

Her hand lifted weakly, gesturing toward the papers, as though even looking at them hurt.

"Please..." That word came out almost like a plea. Almost like surrender.

"Just... leave." A pause. A breath that trembled too much. "We will call you... when we are ready." But even as she said it, she knew.

She wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not for a world where her mother no longer existed.