SHADOWLESS LOVE

The path to the heart of the greenhouse was a quiet haven of beauty, lit by the ethereal glow of the moonlight. Flowers in a kaleidoscope of colors lined the way, their delicate fragrances swirling in the cool night air. But I barely noticed them. My steps faltered as my gaze landed on a cluster of blue roses, their vibrant petals glistening like scattered fragments of the sky.

I stopped, my breath hitching. There they were again—those roses. The roses that haunt me every time I set foot in this place. They gleamed with a surreal brilliance under the pale light, as if holding a secret they refused to share.

A small, helpless smile tugged at my lips. Blue roses... unnatural, impossibly rare, born from the hands of man rather than nature. And yet, they were perfect. Perfect, because they looked exactly like her eyes. Her eyes once held me captive, shone with a warmth and beauty that seemed otherworldly.

The cold sapphire pendant hanging against my chest felt heavier than ever, its icy touch sending a shiver down my spine. I bent down, my fingers trembling as they brushed against a petal.

Ten years. Ten long years, and I was still here—still chasing her ghost in the things she left behind. The moonlight, the roses, the quiet hum of the night… everything whispered her name.

Carefully, I plucked one of the roses, cradling it in my bloodless fingers. Its softness was almost unbearable, a cruel contrast to the ache in my chest. A decade had passed, yet the emptiness she left only grew deeper, and sharper.

I had a child, but it wasn't hers.

I was engaged to marry, but the bride wasn't her.

Time had marched forward; days became weeks, weeks turned into months, and months turned into years, leaving me in its wake, stranded in memories that refused to fade. My life had become a hollow shell of itself, filled with shadows of her presence. I sounded ridiculous, didn't I? But if I could trade everything—everything I had, everything I was—for just one more moment with her...

To hear her voice call my name again...

"Aeron Valentino."

The sound struck me like lightning bolt. My body froze, my lungs forgetting how to breathe. That voice. Familiar and haunting, it resonated through the stillness, igniting a firestorm of emotions I couldn't contain. My hands shook as my heart raced wildly. Was this real? A cruel hallucination?

The rose slipped in my grip, and I clutched it tighter, ignoring the sharp pain as the thorns pierced my skin. Blood trickled down my palm, but I didn't care. The pain was insignificant. If this was a dream, a mirage, I would surrender to it without hesitation.

I turned, desperation clawing at my throat. And there she was.

Her silver curls cascaded over her shoulders, glowing like molten moonlight. Those eyes—those piercing, impossibly blue eyes—met mine, their depth endless. Her figure was small but commanding, wrapped in an elegant navy gown that shimmered with every step she took. Diamond earrings shaped like roses adorned her ears, catching the light and scattering it like broken stars. Her cheeks bore a faint blush, softening the cool detachment on her face.

"Erika"

I whispered, my voice barely audible, trembling with disbelief.

But her gaze was like ice, unyielding and cold.

"I'm sorry, but you're mistaken." Her voice was a blade, sharp and merciless.

"I am Ivelle Ivanova, the youngest daughter of Jonathan Ivanova. Not Erika."

The words sliced through me, leaving me hollow. My breath faltered, and the world seemed to tilt. Mistaken? How could I be mistaken? The very air around her, the way the light caressed her skin—it was all hers. It had to be.

She moved closer, and the illusion began to shatter. The differences became clearer. Her eyes lacked Erika's warmth. Her lips bore only a faint resemblance. Up close, she wasn't Erika. She wasn't the woman I had lost.

My grip tightened around the rose, the thorns digging deeper into my flesh as blood dripped onto the ground. The greenhouse, so beautiful and serene, now felt suffocating. The flowers blurred in my vision as my heart waged war with reality.

"Your hand is bleeding," she said, her voice tinged with something I couldn't place. Concern? Curiosity? It didn't matter. It wasn't her.

I thought I had left this maddening phase behind—the phase where I mistook every woman with silver hair and blue eyes as her. Eight years of isolation should have purged me of such delusions. After all, I had exiled myself from the world, retreating into the shadows after losing to that monster who took her away from me. 

But clearly, even eight years wasn't enough.

If not for those damned hallucinations—if not for the ghosts that haunted me in her absence—my son wouldn't exist. A bitter smile tugged at my lips, sharp as the thorns of the rose I held. I had mistaken his mother for her during a drunken, grief-drenched night on her fifth death anniversary.

That night, I sought her in another's arms, a cruel, desperate attempt to fill the void she left behind. It wasn't love—it wasn't even desire. It was the agony of a man so lost in his longing that he let his grief betray his better judgment. And from that betrayal, my son was born—a child who bore no resemblance to her and yet served as a constant reminder of the emptiness I tried to escape.

I clenched my jaw, the blood from my palm soaking into the rose as it dripped onto the ground below. What a pathetic creature I had become, chasing phantoms, clinging to memories, and trying to stitch together the pieces of my shattered soul with lies and delusions.

And now, standing before Ivelle Ivanova, I was back where I started. Caught in the same cruel cycle, mistaking another woman for the one I could never have again.

And yet, the way she looked at me—those haunting eyes, so familiar and yet not—stirred something dark and twisted inside me. I forced a laugh, stepping back. "Ah, my bad," I said, holding up the bloodstained rose. "You see, I love blue roses."

Her brows furrowed. "Who destroys what they love?"

Her question hit deeper than she could have known. But it was the opening I needed to bury my emotions beneath the mask I wore so well. A cruel smile curved my lips as I let the rose fall to the ground, crushed beneath my heel.

"If the thing I love hurts me," I said, my voice low and cold, "I destroy it. Even if it means destroying myself."

Her expression shifted—guarded, cautious, afraid. A bitter triumph twisted inside me, but it was shortlived. She wasn't Erika. And seeing her fear, her distance, on a face that reminded me so much of the woman I had loved... it felt like a betrayal.

"You're crazy," she whispered, her voice trembling.

I let the words hang in the air, hiding the agony that threatened to consume me. She would never know the truth. She would never know how deeply my love for Erika still burned, an eternal flame that no amount of time, pain, or logic could extinguish.

And for the first time in years, I hated myself for still loving her.