I stayed.
Through the music, the champagne, the laughter that sounded too much like knives — I stayed.
While Bella danced with him again, while the whispers wound tighter around us, while Anna Vancourt smiled that gentle, poisonous smile — I stayed.
I smiled when spoken to. I clinked glasses. I played the part of the composed partner.
And when the soirée finally ended, when the chandeliers dimmed and the crowd began to thin, I thanked our hosts and left on Kaelen's arm, as if nothing inside me had cracked open.
The car ride back was a study in silence.
The city blurred outside, all gold streaks and passing glass. I sat angled toward the window, my reflection pale and unreadable. Kaelen drove, hands tight on the wheel, jaw set in a way that spoke of words fighting to be said.
"Elara," he began quietly.
I didn't look at him. "Don't."
His knuckles whitened. "You don't understand—"
"I saw it," I said flatly. "That's enough."
The silence that followed wasn't calm. It was brittle, strained, vibrating with the weight of what neither of us could fix.
When the car stopped in front of the Sterling mansion, I reached for the handle before it had fully halted.
"Elara, please," he said quietly as I stepped out, the words raw, unguarded. "It wasn't—"
I turned back just enough for him to see my face — perfectly composed, unreadable. "Go home, Kaelen."
He didn't move. He stood in the shadow of the car's open door, half in light, half in dark, as I walked up the marble steps. The heavy door closed behind me with a muted finality.
For the first time in years, the mansion felt too big.
I woke to sunlight and noise — not from the house, but from the phone buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand.
I didn't need to open it to know.
Still, I did.
The photo filled the screen — a perfect shot of Kaelen and Bella, caught mid-kiss beneath the chandeliers. His stillness, her triumph. The caption was mercilessly polished:
"Vancourt Heir Rekindles Old Flame — The Soirée That Stole the Night."
Hundreds of comments followed. Half speculation. Half eulogies for a partnership barely born.
A low knock sounded. "Elara?"
Father's voice — softer than usual, but tense. When he stepped inside, he wasn't in his usual armor of navy suit and tie. Just an open-collar shirt, sleeves rolled, weekend fatigue in every line of his face.
He was holding a tablet. I didn't have to ask what was on it.
"Elara," he said again, setting it down. "You saw this?"
I nodded.
He muttered a curse under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "That bastard. I told you not to trust—" He stopped himself, catching the flicker in my eyes. "Sorry. That was unfair."
"It's fine," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt.
He studied me, his expression shifting from anger to quiet worry. "No, it's not. You look—" He hesitated, as though choosing between hurt and haunted.
My throat tightened, but I said nothing.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "You're not going to the office tomorrow. You're not answering his calls. You're taking time off. I'll deal with the fallout myself."
I finally looked up. "Daddy—"
"No," he said, firm. "You've been fighting everyone's battles recently. Way too many of them. Not this time. You stay away from that man, do you hear me?"
He hesitated, his expression softening again, grief and protectiveness warring behind his eyes. "You don't deserve this. Not again."
Then he left, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence that followed was heavier than anger — it was love in its most helpless form.
By afternoon, my phone rang again.
I didn't check the name. I didn't have to.
"Elara?" Sienna's voice came through the receiver like a lifeline — warm, sharp, unrelenting. "You're at home, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Get a bag. I'm coming to get you."
"That's not necessary—"
"Elara Sterling," she said, using my full name like a threat, "either you pack willingly or I pack for you. You are notspending another hour in that mausoleum feeling sorry for yourself."
I almost smiled. "You make a compelling case."
She exhaled, the sound gentler now. "Good girl. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
By evening, I was in her apartment — all warm light, mismatched furniture, and the scent of coffee and bergamot. She pressed a mug into my hands before I could even sit.
"I saw the pictures," she said softly. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Then we won't."
She smiled, small and protective, and turned on a movie. For hours, we sat there — her laughing too loud at the dumb parts, me nodding along like I was fine.
But when the lights went out, and her soft breathing filled the space, I lay awake. The kiss replayed behind my eyes. Not the act, but the stillness that followed. Kaelen's stillness.
He hadn't kissed her back. He hadn't stopped her either.
Just like Liam — that perfect, damning quiet.
A single tear escaped despite my will. I caught it halfway down my cheek, furious at myself for letting it fall.
Sunday blurred into Monday. Sienna kept me busy — shopping, brunch, noise. I smiled for photos. I laughed when expected.
By Monday night, I almost believed the lie I was selling — that I was unbothered, untouched, immune.
Almost.
I didn't check my phone once. Kaelen's name must have been buried somewhere in the missed calls and unread messages, but I refused to look.
Tuesday morning arrived bright and ordinary. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, painting gold squares on the wooden floor. Sienna was in the kitchen, humming tunelessly, making pancakes.
A knock came at the door. Firm. Three steady raps.
Sienna frowned. "Expecting someone?"
"No," I said, setting down my coffee.
The knock came again — patient, deliberate.
She opened the door.
Kaelen stood there.
Slightly disheveled — but handsome nonetheless, as if the past two days had hollowed him out. His collar was open, his jaw rough with stubble, eyes dark with exhaustion and something deeper — remorse, maybe, or fear.
Sienna stiffened immediately. "Oh, hell no," she muttered under her breath. "You've got five seconds to—"
"Elara," he said quietly, not looking away from me. "Please."
My heart stuttered, traitorous and furious all at once.
Sienna looked between us, assessing, reluctant. Then she sighed. "I'll down to buy something," she said flatly, disappearing from the living room.
The silence that followed was taut, fragile.
I didn't move. Neither did he.
For a long moment, we just looked at each other — two people standing in the wreckage of what might have been, the air thick with everything neither of us knew how to say.
And then, finally, I spoke.
"What are you doing here, Kaelen?"