The CEO's Regret: You made me your lie, I become your Loss-Chapter 87: Too peaceful

Amira didn’t knock. Of course, she didn’t.

The door creaked open just enough for her to slip in, utterly unbothered, like she owned every room she walked into. Her crimson hair was slightly tousled, like she had just rolled out of bed or maybe just didn’t care enough to tame it. A mug of tea rested lazily in her hand, steam curling upward in soft spirals.

She stopped at the doorway. Leaned. Watched.

Her eyes flicked once, taking in Julian first. The way he stood just a little too close, his body angled like a shield, like the world had no right to touch what was his.

Then to Amara.

Flushed cheeks. Soft lips. That look in her eyes that hadn’t quite settled yet.

Oh. Oh, she understood.

Slowly, deliberately, a smirk spread across Amira’s face, sharp, wicked, and far too knowing for anyone’s comfort.

"The air in here..." she drawled, lifting the mug to her lips and taking an unhurried sip, "...is practically vibrating."

Julian didn’t move. But something in his jaw tightened.

Amira’s eyes gleamed.

"So," she went on, pushing off the doorframe just enough to straighten, her tone dripping with mischief, "did the big, bad CEO finally claim his prize?"

Amara’s breath hitched.

"Did you two finally sleep together," she added, far too casually, like she was asking about the weather, "or am I going to have to sit through more longing stares and emotional suffering over breakfast?"

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy.

And then. Amara buried her face in her hands. "Amira!"

Amira only grinned wider, utterly unapologetic, as she had just unwrapped the most entertaining gift of the day. She took another slow, satisfied sip of her tea, savoring the moment as much as the taste.

Across from her, Amara’s face burned deep, vivid red, creeping up her neck until it nearly rivaled her sister’s hair. She coughed lightly, nearly choking on her water as she hurriedly set the glass down, refusing to meet either of their eyes.

"Please," she muttered, her voice barely holding together, "it’s eight in the morning. Let’s have breakfast in peace."

Amira let out a soft, delighted laugh, sliding into the chair opposite them with all the grace of someone who had absolutely no intention of letting this go.

"It’s a valid question," she said lightly, resting her chin on her hand as her gaze flicked between them again, sharp and observant. "I mean, look at you two."

Her lips curved again.

"It looks like someone wants you for breakfast." Amara groaned softly under her breath.

"You both look far too peaceful," Amira continued, gesturing lazily with her mug. "It’s suspicious." Amara finally dared a glance at Julian...

Big mistake.

He was sitting there, posture straight, expression carefully neutral... almost impressively so. But it didn’t quite reach his ears, which were unmistakably tinged pink, betraying him in the most subtle, human way.

Her lips twitched.

Then she turned back to Amira, exhaling a small, dramatic sigh, like she was resigning herself to the inevitable.

"I wish he did," Amara said.

The words landed clear, honest, and far more composed than her flushed face suggested.

Amira blinked. Julian went still.

"But he was a total gentleman the whole night," she added, softer now, something warm threading through her voice as her gaze flickered back to him for just a second longer than necessary.

"He just... held me." The teasing energy in the room shifted, just slightly.

Amira’s smirk didn’t disappear, but it softened at the edges, her eyes narrowing with a different kind of understanding now.

And Julian...Whatever mask he had been holding onto slipped, just a fraction. Because somehow, that quiet confession carried more weight than anything else she could have said.

"A gentleman? With this body?" Amira let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, her eyes dragging over Julian in an exaggerated once-over. "Julian, I thought you were a shark."

Julian didn’t react. Not immediately. He just... sat there. Still. Silent.

But something in his expression shifted, subtle, almost imperceptible, like Amara’s words had landed somewhere deeper than anyone in the room quite understood.

Because she had said it so easily. So openly.

The old Amara would have ducked her head, hidden behind a nervous laugh, softened the moment until it lost its edge.

But this version of her? She didn’t hide. She didn’t soften. She said it.

And somehow, that was far more dangerous than anything Amira could tease him with.

Julian reached for his coffee. Slowly. Deliberately.

He brought it to his lips and took a long, measured sip, the dark liquid doing absolutely nothing to cool the heat coiled tight beneath his skin. His jaw flexed faintly, the only real sign of the storm he kept locked down behind that composed exterior.

Because she had no idea.

No idea what last night had actually been for him.

How every second had tested him.

How every soft breath she took against his chest, every small shift in her sleep, every unconscious movement closer to him had tightened something inside him until it was almost unbearable.

He had lain there, unmoving, staring into the darkness. Reciting contracts.

Clauses. Anything to keep his mind anchored somewhere safe, somewhere controlled.

Because losing control... wasn’t an option. Not with her. Not like that.

"A gentleman," he muttered at last, his voice low, roughened at the edges, like the words had to be forced out.

He set the cup down with quiet precision. "Right."

A faint exhale followed, barely audible. "That’s exactly what I was being."

Across the table, Amira leaned forward, completely delighted, lowering her voice just enough to make it seem like a secret, while making absolutely no effort to actually keep it one.

"Look at him," she whispered loudly to Amara, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Her grin widened. "He’s suffering." She tapped her finger lightly against the table, as if presenting evidence.

"You’re killing the man, sister."

Amara laughed, reaching over to squeeze Julian’s hand under the table. The embarrassment was gone, replaced by a playful, flirtatious spark that Julian realized was going to make the upcoming gentlemanly nights even harder to navigate.

—

Six months had passed since the smoke cleared from the warehouse, and the city was still buzzing with rumors about the "reborn" Pedro sisters. The annual Gold Leaf Gala was the perfect stage for their debut, not as rivals, but as a united front.

The grand ballroom was a sea of black ties and silk gowns, but the chatter died down to a rhythmic hum the moment the doors opened.

Amara led the way, radiating a soft, steady confidence. She wore a floor-length gown of midnight blue that shimmered like a calm sea.

Beside her, Julian moved with a predatory grace, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back, his eyes scanning the room as if daring anyone to breathe a word against her.

But it was Amira who drew the most gasps. Her fiery red hair was styled in sharp, modern waves, and she wore a structured, emerald-green suit that defied every "feminine" expectation of the elite.

She didn’t look like a shadow anymore; she looked like the flame that lit the room. No more matching outfits. No more confusion. Amara was the grace; Amira was the edge. They walked in sync, a living testament to a bond forged in fire.

As they moved toward the center of the room, a group of socialites, the same ones who had whispered about Amira’s insanity for years, approached with forced smiles.

"Amara, darling, you look divine," one woman cooed, pointedly ignoring Amira. "And we were all so... concerned about the family drama. It’s so brave of you to bring your sister out so soon."

Amara didn’t flinch. She reached out and took Amira’s hand, interlacing their fingers for the entire room to see. "There is no bravery in family, Beatrice. There is only loyalty. And as for the drama? That’s behind us. We’re here to talk about the future."

Amira stepped forward, a sharp, dangerous glint in her eyes that made the woman take a half-step back. "Actually," Amira smirked,

"I’m the one you should be worried about. I hear I’m much better at business than I was at being a ’villain.’ You might want to check your stocks in the morning."

The sisters shared a quick, private look, a flash of the mischief they had missed out on as children. Julian watched them, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He realized then that he hadn’t just saved Amara; he had helped restore a legacy.

Later that evening, as the orchestra began a slow, sweeping waltz, Julian pulled Amara onto the floor.

"Everyone is watching," she whispered, her head resting against his shoulder as they spun.

"Let them watch," Julian replied, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Let them see how stunning you are."

Across the room, Amira was standing at the bar, nursing a sparkling water and watching them with a peaceful expression. She felt a presence beside her and turned to see a young man looking at her with genuine curiosity, not judgment.

"You’re Amira Pedro Piers, aren’t you?" he asked. "I’ve heard you’re the one running the new foundation."

Amira straightened her emerald blazer, a slow, confident smile spreading across her face. "I am. And if you’ve got a pen, I’ve got a lot to tell you about what we’re going to change."

The young man beside Amira didn’t flinch at her sharp tone. In fact, he looked intrigued. He was tall, with a relaxed posture and eyes that seemed to see right through the ice queen persona she had perfected over the years.

His name was Leo Vance, a rising architect known for building structures that looked like art but functioned like fortresses.

"I have a pen, and I have all night," Leo said, his voice a smooth baritone that caught Amira off guard. "But I didn’t come over here to talk about foundations. I came over because you’re the only person in this room who looks like they’d rather be at a dive bar than a gala."