He found her on the rooftop.
The same rooftop where months ago they had played their parts — billionaire and beauty, perfectly posed, perfectly fake. It had been dusk then, golden and staged. Now it was night, windy, quiet, real.
Selena stood near the edge, arms folded tightly over her chest, her curls wild in the wind. She wore no makeup. Just a long black coat, sleeves pushed up, vulnerability peeking out like a bruise beneath silk.
Julian hesitated at the stairwell door, watching her silhouette against the city lights. For a second, he considered turning back — letting the silence keep them safe.
But then she turned her head, just slightly and he knew: if he walked away now, he'd lose her forever.
He stepped onto the gravel. His footsteps were soft but not soft enough to go unnoticed.
Selena didn't look at him.
"I thought this place was fake," she said quietly, her voice carried by the wind. "All of it — the view, the champagne, your hand on my waist. Just another illusion for the cameras."
Julian came closer, not too close. "I thought everything was," he said. "Until you."
The wind moved between them like breath.
"I tried to pretend," he added. "Tried to keep it clean, controlled. I thought if I felt something real, I'd lose everything I'd built."
She turned then — slowly, like turning didn't come easy anymore.
And her eyes…
There were tears there, shining and hanging, glass waiting to crack.
"You were never the second choice," Julian said, voice low, certain. "You were the only one who scared me enough to pretend you weren't."
Selena's lips trembled, just slightly.
"Then why," she asked, "did you let her speak for you?"
Her voice wasn't loud.
But it cut.
Julian exhaled, jaw tightening. "Because I've spent so long controlling the story… I forgot how to fight for the truth."
She looked away again, blinking hard. Her breath caught like she wasn't sure she believed him.
So he stepped forward.
And held something out.
A folder.
Selena looked at it, then at him. She took it slowly, as if it might explode in her hands.
Inside: a formal statement.
Letterhead, signature from his publicist. A press release already cleared for distribution.
"I Stand With Selena Hart."
Her name, bold, protected.
The text below was clean and unambiguous — not a rebranding move not a correction — but a full-throated, unapologetic declaration. Julian Wolfe had chosen his side and he'd done it loudly.
She blinked as the words blurred, her hands shook.
"You're giving this to the press?" she asked.
"I already did," he replied.
She looked up.
"I don't need your name," she whispered.
Julian nodded.
"I know," he said. "But I want to be the one beside it."
Selena closed the folder.
She didn't rush into his arms. Didn't cry dramatically or kiss him under the moon.
She just breathed.
Deep. Slow. Unsteady.
And for the first time in a long time… free.