The door closed behind us, muting the sounds of the ballroom — the hum of gossip, the clinking of crystal, the faint echo of Bella's sobs. For the first time that night, silence settled between us.
Kaelen turned to me, his hand still warm against my back, his eyes dark and searching. The fury he'd held in front of everyone else was gone now, replaced by something quieter, more dangerous — and infinitely more tender.
"Let me see," he said softly.
I blinked, confused, until his fingers brushed the side of my face — the cheek that had taken Bella's slap. His touch was careful, reverent almost, as though afraid he might hurt me again by accident.
"It's not bad," I murmured, trying to smile. "I've had worse."
His thumb stilled against my skin. "You shouldn't have to."His voice was low, almost a growl, the kind that made my pulse trip. "She'll never touch you again, Elara. I swear it."
The words were too raw, too honest. They cut through the noise of everything else — the scandal, the whispers, the cameras — until it was just us. His hand lingered at my jaw, his gaze holding mine with something like hunger and restraint tangled together.
For a moment, the world outside didn't exist.
And then — the spell broke.
Kaelen's phone buzzed once, twice, insistently. He exhaled sharply and stepped back, pulling it from his pocket.
"Mark," he said, voice clipped. "What is it?"
Even from where I stood, I could hear the faint panic in the assistant's tone.
Kaelen's expression hardened by the second.
"…Understood," he said finally, his jaw tightening. "Set up the press conference for tomorrow morning. First thing. I'll handle the statement myself."
He ended the call, his eyes returning to me — sharper now, the softness replaced by focus.
"It's already out there," he said quietly. "A photo of Bella crying as she left the gala, and another of us arriving together. The press is spinning it as an affair."
My stomach dropped. "They didn't waste any time."
"They never do." He exhaled, the muscle in his jaw flexing once. "But this time, they won't control the story. We will."
I nodded, trusting him completely — though the weight of what he said hung between us like smoke.
Then, as if remembering something, he took a step closer again, the steel in his expression softening.
"There's something I need to tell you."
His tone had changed — quieter now, almost hesitant. "Your father may be away, but I reached out to him before the gala. He knows that I asked you to marry me, Elara."
I froze. "You—what?"
He nodded once. "I spoke to Charles. I told him I wanted to make our engagement official… with his blessing."
My breath caught. For a moment, the noise in my head — the scandal, the crowd, Bella's tears — all vanished.
"He gave it," Kaelen said simply. "He said you were your mother's daughter — strong, stubborn, impossible to sway — and that if you chose me, then I'd better spend the rest of my life proving I was worthy of that choice."
My throat tightened. "He said that?"
Kaelen's mouth curved, a faint, private smile. "He did. And I told him I intend to."
Emotion rose in my chest so suddenly it nearly undid me. I blinked hard, but the tears still threatened. He reached out and brushed one away with the pad of his thumb before it could fall.
"Don't cry," he murmured. "You'll make me think I did something wrong."
"You didn't," I whispered. "Not this time."
He let out a quiet breath, his hand finding mine, fingers intertwining. For the first time all night, I felt steady again.
Later — in the car
The city lights slid across the tinted glass, flashes of gold and shadow against Kaelen's profile. The gala was behind us, but the storm it unleashed was only beginning.
Kaelen's hand rested over mine, thumb tracing small, absent circles.
"Stay with me tonight," he said finally, voice low. "I don't want you at the mansion."
"I don't have anything to wear," I said softly. "All my things are at Sterling."
He turned to me, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Flora already handled it. I had her send over a selection to the penthouse — dresses, suits, everything you might need."
I blinked. "You planned this?"
His smile deepened, slow and devastating. "I plan everything when it comes to you."
My heart gave a small, traitorous flutter. Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of white and gold, and for one fleeting moment, it felt as though nothing — not the board, not Bella, not the world — could touch us.
But even as I leaned back against the leather seat, a quiet unease lingered at the edges of that peace.
Because tomorrow, when the sun rose, the war would begin.
Back at the penthouse.
The door clicked shut, sealing us in a world of quiet. The gala's cacophony—the shrill gossip, the clinking glasses, the ghost of Bella's performance—was reduced to a distant hum. Here, in the expansive silence of his penthouse, the air was still and cool.
Kaelen didn't turn on the lights. The city below did that for us, painting the minimalist furniture in strokes of cobalt and silver. He discarded his jacket and bow tie with a weary grace, the fabric whispering as it fell onto the sofa.
"Whiskey?" he asked, his voice a low gravel in the dark.
"Please," I replied, my own voice thin.
I slipped my heels off, the cold floor a grounding shock. When he returned, the two glasses of amber liquid caught the city's light. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, a spark of connection that felt more real than anything that had happened all night. He didn't propose a toast. We simply drank, the spirit a welcome burn that steadied my nerves.
The pull of the deep, upholstered sofa was magnetic. We sank into it, the vast window a living painting before us. My mind, ever tactical, began to churn. "For the press conference, we should lead with the facts about the photograph. Pre-empt the narrative—"
"Elara." His voice was soft, yet it held a finality that stopped me. He took my glass, setting it beside his on the table. Then he turned, his body angling toward mine, his gaze a tangible weight. "Not tonight." His hand came up, his touch feather-light as he traced the line of my cheekbone. "Does it still hurt?"
The concern in his eyes was a physical thing, warm and solid. "No," I whispered. "It's just a memory."
"A memory I should have prevented." The darkness in his tone was not for me, but for her. His thumb stroked my jaw, then drifted to my lower lip, a touch so intimate it stole my breath. The air shifted, charged with a new, potent energy. The careful distance we'd maintained all evening evaporated.
When he kissed me, it was not with the frantic heat of the dressing room, but with a slow, devastating certainty. It was a silent conversation, a reaffirmation of every unspoken promise. His hands were not desperate, but deliberate, mapping my skin as if committing it to memory.
The question in his eyes was unmistakable, and my slight smile was all the answer he needed.
When his lips found mine again, it was not with a question, but with a slow, devastating certainty that unraveled the very core of me. The taste of him—peat smoke and the faint, clean sweetness of whiskey—became my only reality. My fingers, trembling not from fear but from a desperate, aching need, worked the buttons of his shirt until I could slide my hands inside. My palms flattened against the scorching heat of his skin, feeling the hard plane of his chest, the frantic, rhythmic thud of his heart against mine.
His hands found the zipper at my back. The sound of it yielding, a soft, metallic sigh, was the sound of my own defenses crumbling. The dress fell away, and with it, every pretense I had clung to that night.
A low groan rumbled in his chest. "I need to feel you," he breathed against my lips, his voice thick with a need that mirrored my own. "All of you."
His lips, which had defended me with such cold precision, became astonishingly reverent. They mapped the arch of my back, the delicate ridge of my shoulder blades, as if he were a cartographer committing my sacred geography to memory.
"Elara." My name was a prayer on his lips.
"Oh, Kaelen..." I gasped, my head falling back as his mouth blazed a searing path down my neck.
"Tell me you're mine," he demanded, his voice a raw whisper in the space between our bodies, his hands holding me as if I were the most fragile, precious thing he'd ever touched.
"I am," I choked out, the confession torn from me. "I am yours."
The admission seemed to shatter the last of his control. The world narrowed to the soft crush of velvet, the weight of him settling between my thighs, and the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice strained as he moved against me.
I forced my eyes open, drowning in the stormy darkness of his gaze.
"Only me," he whispered, each word a thrust, a promise. "See only me."
"Yes Kaelen," I cried out, my fingers digging into his shoulders as the pleasure built, a slow, burning fusion where thought ceased. "There will only be you, Kaelen. Only you."
When the final, cresting wave pulled me under, it was his name on my lips, a shattered plea. I felt him follow, his own release a shuddering, guttural sigh against my neck.
"For the rest of my life," he breathed into my skin, the vow sealing the space between our hearts. "It will only be you. I'm yours, Elara. All yours."