Chapter 2 : Scarred Memories

The memories came at night, when the city outside his apartment window was a tapestry of lights and shadows. Roy sat at his desk, fingers poised over the keyboard, but the words wouldn''t come. Instead, images from two years ago played behind his eyelids, vivid and relentless.

*Two years earlier*

The penthouse had been Mus''s sanctuary, a glass and steel fortress high above the city. Roy remembered the first time he''d been invited there, how the elevator had whisked him up sixty floors to a world that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

That night, the city had been spread out below them like a jewel box, lights twinkling in the darkness. Mus had poured them both whiskey, the amber liquid catching the moonlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

You''re not like the others, Mus had said, his voice low. He stood close enough that Roy could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the clean, masculine scent of his cologne.

Others? Roy had asked, though he knew what Mus meant. The people who orbited Mus Shao''s world—business associates, sycophants, those drawn to power like moths to flame.

People who want something from me. Mus''s hand had come up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from Roy''s forehead. The touch was surprisingly gentle for a man whose reputation was built on violence and control. You just... are.

It had started like that. A touch here, a glance there. The slow, inexorable pull of attraction that felt like gravity. Roy had known the risks—knew who Mus was, what he represented—but knowledge had been no defense against desire.

The flashback shifted, time collapsing.

*Their first time*

Mus''s bedroom had been all dark wood and clean lines, masculine and uncompromising. Roy remembered the feel of the sheets against his back, cool silk that contrasted with the heat of Mus''s skin.

Tell me to stop, Mus had murmured, his mouth against Roy''s throat. His hands were everywhere, mapping Roy''s body with a possessiveness that should have been frightening but instead felt like a claim Roy had been waiting for someone to make.

I don''t want you to stop. The words had been breathless, torn from somewhere deep inside.

Mus had kissed him then, a hard, demanding kiss that left no room for hesitation. His hands had been skilled, knowing exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply. Roy remembered arching into those hands, remembered the shock of pleasure when Mus finally entered him, remembered the way their bodies had moved together in a rhythm that felt ancient and inevitable.

Afterward, lying tangled in the sheets, Mus had traced the line of Roy''s spine with a fingertip. You''re mine now, he''d said, and it hadn''t been a question.

For six months, Roy had lived in that suspended reality. Days spent writing in the sunlit study Mus had set up for him, nights spent in Mus''s bed, learning the topography of a body that was both weapon and sanctuary. He''d told himself he could handle it—the secrecy, the danger, the knowledge that the man he was falling in love with commanded a criminal empire.

And then came the night that shattered everything.

*The misunderstanding*

Roy had returned early from a book signing, a surprise for Mus. He''d let himself into the penthouse with the key Mus had given him, a gesture of trust that had felt like a promise.

The living room was empty, but voices came from the study. Mus''s voice, low and intimate, and a woman''s laughter, light and familiar.

Roy had moved toward the sound, a smile on his lips. Maybe Mus had a business associate over. Maybe—

The scene in the study stopped him cold.

Mus stood by the window, his back to the door. A woman was pressed against him, her arms around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder. She was petite, dark-haired, dressed in an expensive-looking dress that was rumpled from their embrace.

Mus''s hand was on her back, a comforting, intimate gesture. He was saying something too low for Roy to hear, but the tone was tender, protective.

Roy''s breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to tilt, the familiar surroundings of the penthouse suddenly alien and hostile.

He must have made a sound, because Mus turned. Their eyes met across the room. For a moment, Mus looked startled, then something like guilt flashed across his features.

Roy—

But Roy was already backing away, the key falling from his numb fingers to clatter on the marble floor. The woman turned, her face pale and tear-streaked, but Roy didn''t see her features. All he saw was the intimacy of the scene, the way Mus held her, the way she clung to him.

Roy, wait—

He didn''t wait. He turned and ran, the elevator ride down sixty floors a blur of pain and betrayal. By the time he reached the lobby, his phone was buzzing with calls from Mus, but he silenced it, then turned it off completely.

The next day, he''d packed what little he''d kept at his own apartment and booked a flight to Paris. He''d left without explanation, without giving Mus a chance to speak. The hurt had been too deep, the betrayal too complete.

*Present day*

Roy blinked, coming back to himself in his quiet apartment. The memory still had the power to make his chest ache, a physical pain that felt fresh despite the years that had passed.

He stood, pacing to the window. The city spread out below him, but he didn''t see the lights. He saw Mus''s face in that moment of discovery—the surprise, the guilt. He saw the woman in his arms.

For two years, he''d carried that image with him, a wound that never quite healed. He''d built a career, won awards, told himself he was better off. But the truth was, he''d never stopped looking for Mus in every crowded room, never stopped hearing his voice in the silence of the night.

His phone buzzed on the desk. An unknown number. Roy stared at it for a long moment before answering.

Roy Wen.

There was a pause, then a voice he hadn''t heard in two years. We need to talk.

Mus. Of course.

About what? Roy kept his voice steady through sheer force of will.

About what you saw that night. Mus''s voice was tight, controlled. About the woman you thought was my lover.

Roy''s fingers tightened around the phone. I know what I saw.

You saw my sister. The words were blunt, unadorned. Her name is Mus Li. She''d just been diagnosed with cancer. She came to me that night because she was scared, and I was the only family she had left.

The floor seemed to drop out from under Roy. He leaned against the window, the glass cool against his forehead. Your... sister?

She died six months later. Mus''s voice cracked on the words, a vulnerability Roy had never heard from him before. I tried to tell you. I called, I came to your apartment, but you were already gone. By the time I tracked you to Paris, you''d moved again.

The pieces clicked into place with terrible clarity. The intimacy Roy had witnessed hadn''t been romantic—it had been familial. A brother comforting a terrified sister. And he''d walked away without giving Mus a chance to explain.

Why are you telling me this now? Roy''s voice was barely a whisper.

Because you''re back. Because I saw you at the Lotus. Because... Mus took a breath. Because for two years, I''ve carried the weight of your misunderstanding. And I''m tired of carrying it alone.

Silence stretched between them, filled with all the words they hadn''t said, all the time they''d lost.

Where is she buried? Roy asked finally.

Greenwood Cemetery. Plot 147. Mus''s voice softened. She would have liked you. She was an artist too. A painter.

Roy closed his eyes. The pain in his chest was different now—not the sharp sting of betrayal, but the deeper, more complicated ache of regret. Two years. Two years of anger and hurt, all based on a misunderstanding.

I need time, he said, because it was the only thing he could think to say.

I know. Mus''s voice was gentle. Take all the time you need. But know this, Roy—I never stopped wanting you. Not for a single day.

The line went dead. Roy stood there for a long time, phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone as if it might offer some wisdom.

Outside, the city slept. Inside, Roy''s world had been upended for the second time in as many days. The past wasn''t what he''d thought it was. The betrayal he''d carried like armor had been a misunderstanding. The man he''d loved—still loved, if he was honest with himself—had been telling the truth all along.

He walked back to his desk, but instead of sitting, he went to the closet and pulled out a small box from the back. Inside were the few things he''d kept from his time with Mus: a silver cufflink that had fallen off one of Mus''s shirts, a matchbook from a restaurant they''d gone to, a photograph taken by a street photographer that showed them walking hand in hand, their faces turned toward each other, smiling.

He''d kept these things even as he told himself he was moving on. Even as he built walls around his heart, he''d kept these fragments of what had been.

Now, holding the photograph, he saw it differently. Not as evidence of a love that had been betrayed, but as evidence of a love that had been real. A love that might still be real, if he had the courage to reach for it.

But courage was in short supply these days. And the world had grown more complicated since he''d left. There was He Lian Yuwei and her family''s merger with Mus''s organization. There were the dangers of Mus''s world, dangers that hadn''t disappeared just because Roy now understood the truth about that night two years ago.

He put the photograph back in the box, but he didn''t return it to the closet. He left it on his desk, where he could see it. A reminder. A question.

Somewhere in the city, Mus Shao was waiting. For what, Roy wasn''t sure. For forgiveness? For a second chance? For closure?

All Roy knew was that the past was no longer a closed book. It was an open wound, and it was bleeding into the present. And he had no idea how to stanch the flow.

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