The suitcase lay open on the bed like a second heart she was trying to pack away. Outside the window of the Los Angeles high-rise, the city lights flickered—false stars that had witnessed every high and every crash of their love story.

"I love you," he said. Simple. No smirk this time.

He pushed off the frame and crossed the room in four strides. He smelled like expensive cologne and the faint ghost of a whiskey sour. "You're not even gonna look at me?"

Maya turned. His face was a mask—cool, unbothered, but his eyes betrayed him. There was a flicker there. Panic, maybe. Or pride refusing to soften into pleading.

Maya closed her eyes. Her heart was a warzone—every memory a landmine. The nights he did come home, wrapped around her like she was the only oxygen in the room. The way he looked at her when no one else was watching. The way he made her feel like a queen and a ghost in the same breath.

"You packing light?" Tyga’s voice was low, almost amused. He leaned against the doorframe, gold chains catching the dim light. "Or you taking the whole closet?"