My Liliana
RONNY’S POV
The drive back felt longer than it should have. My knuckles were white around the steering wheel, headlights cutting a pale path through the night. The ocean fell away in my rearview mirror, leaving nothing but the empty highway and the low hum of my engine for company.
My head was a battlefield. Every detail I’d uncovered at the crash site kept replaying—the bent guardrail, the too-short skid marks, the silence that screamed louder than any evidence I’d ever dug up. But under it all, threading through every single thought, was her.
Liliana.
It didn’t matter how hard I tried to shove her out of my head. She was there. She had been since the moment she stepped back into my life, and now it felt like she’d branded herself into me.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, the sky had shifted, a thin streak of gray on the horizon. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, gripping the wheel, trying to steady myself before going inside.
The house was dark, except for the faint light spilling from the kitchen. Maria was up, of course. She always was. The woman didn’t seem to sleep, and even when she did, she had that sixth sense that told her when I walked through the door.
“Mr Ronny?” Her voice was soft, cautious, as I shrugged out of my jacket and tossed it carelessly on the hook. She stepped into the hall, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve been out late again. Should I make you something to eat?”
I shook my head, forcing my tone to stay even. “No. I’m fine.”
Her brow furrowed like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. Maria never pushed when she saw that look on my face—the one that said I wasn’t in the mood. She just nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.
I climbed the stairs two at a time, exhaustion pressing down on me but refusing to drag me under. The bedroom was cold, still, exactly how I’d left it. I stripped off my shirt and walked straight into the shower, twisting the knobs until steam filled the space.
The water hit my shoulders, hot and relentless. I braced my hands against the tile, head bowed, letting the spray wash over me. My thoughts swirled like the water at my feet.
This wasn’t love. I knew that much. I wasn’t capable of that, not anymore. Love required softness, trust—two things that had been burned out of me a long time ago. What I felt for Liliana wasn’t clean or noble. It was darker. Messier.
Obsession.
That was the only word for it.
The need to unravel her secrets. To see what she was hiding behind those sharp smiles and fearless eyes. To drag every truth out of her, no matter how deep she’d buried it.
And God help me, the need to finish what we started in her room.
I groaned, slamming my palm against the wall, the sound echoing in the shower stall. The memory of her lips, her body pressed against mine, the taste of her—it was carved into me like a scar. No amount of hot water could burn it out.
When I finally stepped out, the mirror was fogged, and my head wasn’t any clearer. I pulled on sweatpants and a black T-shirt, too restless to bother with anything else.
The phone sat on my nightstand, screen glowing faintly in the dark. I picked it up, thumb hovering over her contact.
Don’t.
Don’t call her. Don’t open that door again.
But my hand wouldn’t listen. I stared at her name, at the number I knew by heart, and for one insane second I imagined what it would feel like just to hear her voice.
I dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned me, dragging a hand over my face.
“Get it together,” I muttered.
I killed the light and crawled under the covers, rolling onto my back, willing sleep to come. Just close your eyes. Forget her. By morning, this will be over.
But when the gray light of dawn bled through the curtains and the first sound of traffic echoed outside, the first thing I did—the very first fucking thing—was reach for my phone.
Before my brain had time to argue, before reason could put up a fight, my thumb hit her name and the line was ringing.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
I almost hung up. Almost convinced myself I’d misdialed. But then—
The fourth ring, and she answered.
“Ronny.”
Her voice. Except it wasn’t the one I wanted to hear. Not the teasing lilt, not the infuriating warmth that always made my pulse stumble. This was sharp, clipped, professional. All business.
And I hated it.
“Liliana,” I said, my voice lower than I meant.
A beat of silence. “What is it? I assume this isn’t a courtesy call.”
I should’ve stopped. Should’ve found some neutral ground, something safe. But the words slipped out before I could catch them.
“I think your mother was drugged.”
Silence stretched, thick and heavy, the kind that makes your chest tighten.
When she spoke, her tone was calm, almost too calm. “That’s a serious claim, Ronny.”
“I know.” I pushed off the bed, pacing across the floor, phone pressed to my ear. “But it fits. The lack of braking. The state of the car. The refusal of an autopsy. It all makes sense if she wasn’t in control of her body when that car went over the edge.”
She didn’t answer right away. I could hear her breathing though—steady, careful, like she was reining herself in.
Finally, she said, “Where did you get this theory?”
“At the crash site,” I admitted. “I went back last night.”
Another pause. Then, her voice softened just enough to cut through me. “And you think someone drugged her to make sure she couldn’t.”
“Yes.”
The silence that followed was worse than anything she could’ve said.
I swallowed hard. “We need to talk. In person. There are questions I need to ask you.”
“My office is fine,” she said immediately, the edge sliding back into her tone. “Come by this afternoon.”
“No.” My reply was instant, harder than I intended. “Not your office. My house.”
“Why?” Suspicion laced the word, like she was already bracing herself for whatever excuse I’d throw at her.
“Because we have to be as discreet as possible.”
The words hung between us, weighted and sharp.
I could practically see her eyes narrowing, the way her lips would press together when she was holding back the urge to argue.
Finally, she exhaled, the sound of surrender threading through the line. “Fine.”
One word. But it hit me like a victory.
And then, before I could say anything else, the line went dead.
I stared at the phone, her voice still ringing in my head. The sharpness, the distance she’d wrapped around herself like armor. But underneath it—buried deep—I’d heard the crack.
That was more like her.
A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at my lips.
My Lilian was back.
My Lilian?
Really?
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