I had to know the truth. Even if it destroyed everything we'd built.
The hotel room was anonymous. Beige walls. Generic art. The kind of space designed to be forgotten the moment you left it. Exactly what Elara needed—a blank canvas where she could think without every corner holding memories of Kairos, of Leo, of the life she'd been building.
The life that might have been built on another lie.
She'd driven straight from the hospital to the nearest decent hotel, checked in under her maiden name—Hart, not Vance, never Vance—and spent the first night staring at the ceiling trying to reconcile Victoria's words with the man she'd agreed to marry just hours before.
He asked me to make you disappear.
But he'd also written letters. Searched for three years. Burned the contract and voided it when he thought she was dying. Loved her desperately enough to beg her to marry him.
