Julian's chilling confession that the whole wedding plan had to go exactly as scheduled loomed over Elara like a heavy blanket. The kiss in the carriage house had been quickly followed by proof of his deceit. She was no longer just a wallflower with a crush; she was now involved in a crime, an unwitting accomplice to her sister's ruin.
The next morning, Elara woke with a clear intention: she needed to find out what Julian really wanted. The old photograph was the key, and the prenuptial agreement he must have created was the lock.
Before she could come up with a plan, Julian made his move.
He arrived at the estate shortly after breakfast, looking fresh despite his late-night scheming. He found Elara sketching in the garden conservatory, a space she had hoped would provide some protection.
"Perfect," he said, his voice filled with fake enthusiasm. "You're exactly where I need you."
"Julian, I have several commitments for the gallery this week," Elara began, ready to pull away.
He interrupted her with a gesture of impatient confidence. "Unimportant. I'm flying to Copenhagen for forty-eight hours to finalize the purchase of the Aris Foundation's textile collection. It's a crucial move, possibly worth billions, but the presentation space is awful. I need your artistic eye—someone who understands light and composition, not just accounting."
He made the request seem urgent and flattering, but Elara felt the trap closing in. He didn't need her artistic eye; he needed to isolate her.
"Seraphina should go," Elara insisted, trying to keep her distance.
Julian sighed, a sound reserved for lesser beings. "Seraphina is busy tasting 200 shades of ivory ribbon with the wedding planner. She wouldn't recognize a tapestry if she saw one. Truthfully, I need someone who won't spend the trip checking her reflection. Come on, Elara. We leave in two hours."
He didn't invite her; he ordered her, relying on the ingrained obedience of a younger sister who had always met the demands of the beautiful and powerful. She agreed, not out of weakness, but because she saw this as her only chance for close observation.
Two hours later, they were in the air on Julian's private jet—a sleek, soundproof space of polished wood and creamy leather. The flight felt like a blend of physical closeness and emotional distance. Julian worked nonstop, reviewing legal documents and giving orders in three different languages. Elara sat across from him, pretending to read while acutely aware of every subtle movement of his hand and every shift in his breathing. The memory of the kiss lingered between them, raw and unresolved.
After landing in Copenhagen, Julian's efficiency impressed her. They bypassed customs, were taken to a waiting black sedan, and delivered to a minimalist waterfront hotel. The concierge, overly polite, led them straight to the penthouse floor.
Julian paused outside the last door, his whiskey-colored eyes locking onto hers. "There's a small issue, I'm afraid. My team booked us in the Royal Suite, but they mixed up the reservations and failed to note the different travel plans. We're officially booked into one suite. They promised to fix it tomorrow, but for tonight…"
He opened the door to a space designed to push boundaries. It was a sprawling, glass-walled suite with a large shared living area, a sleek kitchen, and two bedrooms separated only by an acoustic sliding door. The message was clear: they were meant to share this space, breathe the same air, and face the unbearable tension of their forbidden closeness.
"I'll take the couch, of course," Julian said immediately, keeping his tone polite.
"Don't be ridiculous," Elara snapped, suddenly tired of the polite pretense. "You have a billion-dollar acquisition to manage. I'll take the smaller room. Just don't touch me, Julian. Don't bring up the past. Don't pretend anything."
"Agreed," he replied, his eyes showing a flicker of genuine remorse, or maybe just fatigue. "We are here for business and nothing else. Think of this suite as the most awkward, well-funded boardroom you've ever entered."
But business felt impossible. The closeness felt suffocating. Dinner passed in silence, marked only by the clinking of cutlery and the rhythmic sound of the waves outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Every glance felt loaded, and every accidental brushing of hands reminded them of the desperate, unforgivable kiss they had shared.
Later, Julian retreated to his bedroom, closing the sliding door firmly. Elara attempted to sketch, but the charcoal wouldn't move across the page. Her mind raced with thoughts of Seraphina's potential disaster and Julian's cold plans.
She heard the shower start in Julian's adjoining bathroom. It was now or never.
Moving cautiously, Elara crept into the suite's office area. Julian's custom-made leather briefcase sat on the desk, closed but not locked. It showed his arrogance—his belief that no one would dare challenge him.
Her conscience screamed a warning, but the image of Seraphina's trusting face and the memory of Julian's chilling late-night orders gave Elara the justification she needed. This was more than infidelity; it was self-defense.
With trembling fingers, she opened the briefcase.
Inside, among piles of financial documents, she quickly found it: a thick, legal document titled in bold black letters: PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT: THORNE-VANCE.
Elara pulled it out, her hands shaking so much she could barely turn the pages. This wasn't just a standard agreement; it was a brutal legal attack. The terms were harsh. They stated that Seraphina would receive a minimal, fixed settlement—less than the cost of the orchids—unless Julian was considered to have initiated the divorce and was proven at fault.
But the most damaging clause wasn't about money. It was about control. The document included a provision stating that after the marriage, Julian would gain immediate, temporary control over a specific legacy asset held in a blind trust by the Thorne family: a majority ownership stake in the dilapidated, historic Thorne Gallery.
The whole engagement was not just about money; it was about seizing control of a part of the Thorne legacy. Seraphina was simply the key to the vault.
Elara's eyes scanned the final page, noting the signature lines. Seraphina's flourish was already there. But beneath it, in a small, nearly hidden clause concerning asset assignment, Elara saw one carefully written word, the name of the recipient of the trust transfer, penned in Julian's elegant handwriting:
The Elara Foundation.