My office at Sterling Group was a sanctuary of cold, hard facts. The press conference played on a muted screen in the corner—a silent, mocking pantomime of unity. Our poised faces, our joined hands. The words from the transcript I was reviewing for the official release seared into my mind.
"My commitment is to Elara Sterling."
"We are moving forward. Together."
They felt like lines from a play I'd already exited. Each "together" was a jeer. I could still feel the phantom weight of Bella's body in Kaelen's arms, the perfect, pathetic picture they made. The press had bought our performance, but the reality was that our "unbreakable front" had lasted precisely one hour before shattering against the masterful manipulation of his past.
My phone buzzed again, skittering across the polished surface of my desk like a live wire.
Kaelen.
The screen lit up, his name a brand. I watched it, my breath caught in my throat, until it went dark. Then, a minute later, it would glow again. A persistent, pulsing reminder of the chasm between us.
I didn't answer. What was there to say? The trust we had painstakingly glued back together felt like cheap pottery, shattered into a thousand new, sharper pieces. The problem wasn't Bella. It was the ghost she represented. It was the debt carved into Kaelen's soul, a debt I could never repay and therefore could never truly compete with. No merger, no press conference, no strategic alliance could fight a ghost. The terrifying question whispered in the silence of my mind: Did he even want to be free of it?
By nightfall, the walls of my office felt like they were closing in. I needed a different kind of silence. I found myself at the Onyx, sinking into the dark leather of my usual corner booth. A single glass of an expensive, peaty Scotch sat before me, its smokiness a mirror of my own charred emotions. I was adrift in the hum of subdued conversations, trying to find my bearings in the wreckage.
The first glass was for the shock. I drank it down, welcoming the burn that seared a clean path through the tangled mess of my emotions. It was a feeling I could control, unlike the ache in my chest.
The second glass was for the memory. The image of Kaelen holding her, the frantic helplessness in his eyes when he looked at me. I had no choice. But he did. He could have laid her on the sofa. He could have called for help immediately. But he stood frozen, holding her, trapped not just by decency, but by the history she embodied. I poured the amber liquid, watching it catch the low light. This glass was for the bitter understanding that love might not be enough to dismantle a fortress of guilt and obligation.
The third glass was for the hollow victory. The press releases were a success. The investors were reassured. The Island Residence project was secure. And it all felt like ash in my mouth. I was winning the corporate war and losing the one that mattered. I swirled the Scotch, the ice cubes clinking a lonely toast to my public triumph and private ruin.
I was on my fourth glass, the edges of the room beginning to soften, the sharp pain finally blunting into a heavy, manageable throb, when a shadow fell over my table.
I didn't need to look up to know who it was. The expensive cologne, the entitled stance—it was a scent from a past life.
"Elara."
I lifted my gaze. Liam Vancourt stood there, a portrait of calculated sympathy. Without an invitation, he slid into the booth opposite me.
"I saw the press conference," he began, his voice a low, intimate purr meant to exclude the rest of the world. "You looked… strained. It must be exhausting, constantly performing for the cameras." He leaned forward, his eyes searching mine for the cracks he knew were there. "And then I heard about the little scene at Uncle Kaelen's office. That Smith girl… quite the dramatic display. It's a shame he's so easily manipulated by his past."
I took a slow sip of my Scotch, the liquid fire giving me an anchor. I said nothing.
He mistook my silence for encouragement. "It doesn't have to be this hard, Elara," he said, his tone softening into a parody of concern. "You're fighting a war on two fronts—against that social climber, and against the demons Uncle Kaelen refuses to exorcise. You're running a company. You shouldn't have to play full-time therapist to a damaged man as well."
He let the words hang, letting the image of Kaelen's "damaged" state sink in. Then he delivered his masterstroke.
"I know I made mistakes. Grave ones. But what we had was… simple. Real. We came from the same world, understood the same rules. There would be no ghosts between us, Elara. No expectations or childhood traumas to navigate. Just a partnership. A life." His gaze was intense, willing me to remember, to compare. "I was your first choice for a reason. Maybe I should have been your last."
The sheer, staggering audacity of it—the man who had shattered me in a past life, now presenting himself as a safe harbor—cut through the Scotch-induced haze like a shard of glass. He wasn't offering comfort; he was scavenging.
I didn't shout. The sound that left my lips was low, guttural, scraped from a place of pure, unadulterated exhaustion.
"Shut up, Liam."
His smug expression faltered, replaced by indignant shock. "Elara, I'm only—"
I didn't wait to hear the rest. I slid out of the booth, my movements deliberate despite the slight sway in my vision. I left my half-finished drink and a stack of bills on the table, a final, silent period to his sentence. I walked away, feeling his stunned gaze on my back, and I didn't give a single damn.
Pushing through the heavy doors of the Onyx, the cold night air hit me like a physical slap. I sucked in a sharp breath, the city's chill a welcome cleanse after the cloying toxicity of Liam's presence. I closed my eyes for a second, letting the breeze cool my fevered skin.
When I opened them, my heart stuttered to a dead stop.
Parked directly across the street, sleek and ominous as a panther, was Kaelen's black Maybach. The driver's side door was already opening, and he was stepping out. He must have been sitting there, waiting, for who knows how long.
His eyes found me instantly, a hunter's gaze honed only for me. He took in my posture, the slight unsteadiness on my feet, the way I clutched my coat a little tighter against the cold. He saw it all—the aftermath of my attempted escape.
He crossed the street in a few quick strides, his own weariness etched into the lines of his beautiful, tormented face. He stopped a few feet from me, his gaze sweeping over me, and the anger that was usually his first response was entirely absent. In its place was a devastation so profound it stole the air from my lungs.
"Elara," he said, my name a raw wound on his lips. His voice was hushed, pained. "You've been drinking."
It wasn't an accusation. It was an observation that caused him physical pain. To see me, the always-in-control heiress, reduced to trying to drown my sorrows alone in a bar—because of him. Because of the mess he'd let into our lives. The hurt in his eyes was a mirror of my own, and for a terrifying second, I wanted to fall into his arms and let the world burn.
But then I remembered the weight of Bella in his arms.
I straightened my spine, finding a last reserve of strength.
"My car is coming," I said, my voice thankfully steady despite the tremor inside. I pulled out my phone, my fingers cold and clumsy. "Sienna is picking me up."
"Let me take you home. Please." The 'please' was ragged, stripped of all his power.
I finally met his gaze, letting him see the absolute, barren emptiness his choices had left in me.
"No, Kaelen," I whispered, the words carrying on the cold breeze between us. "Just… leave me alone."
The headlights of Sienna's little sports car turned the corner then, a timely rescue. I didn't wait for his reply. I walked toward the curb, away from him, away from the ghost in his past and the wreckage of our present. I didn't look back, even as I felt the weight of his stare, knowing he was still standing there, watching me go.