The ballroom of the Grand Beaumont was a sea of shifting silk and shattered glass, but Elara stood perfectly still.
To anyone else, the scene was a catastrophe. A waiter had tripped, sending three tiers of champagne flutes into a freefall; the bride was currently locked in the coat closet having a panic attack; and the air conditioning had died twenty minutes ago, leaving the elite of the city to wilt in the humid July heat.
People were leaving. They were checking their watches, making polite excuses to the groom's parents, and slipping toward the valet.
But Elara didn't move toward the exit. She never did.
"Elara, please tell me you found the backup florist," a frantic voice chirped in her ear. It was Sarah, the maid of honor, whose mascara was beginning to track down her cheeks like dark, weeping rivers. "The centerpieces are wilting. It looks like a funeral in there."
"I found them, Sarah. They'll be here in ten minutes," Elara said, her voice a calm, steady low. She reached out and gently took the empty wine glass from Sarah's trembling hand. "Go to the bridal suite. Tell Sophie I have the emergency kit and a bottle of cold water. Tell her the lighting in the ballroom is being dimmed—no one will see the flowers. It'll just look like atmosphere."
"You're a lifesaver," Sarah breathed, leaning briefly on Elara's shoulder as if Elara were a literal pillar of stone. "I don't know why you're still here. You aren't even on the payroll for this."
"I'm here because I said I'd be here," Elara replied simply.
That was the rule. The Elara Code. You don't leave when the ship starts taking on water; you grab a bucket. You don't walk away because things get "messy." Pride, to Elara, wasn't about being the prettiest or the richest in the room; it was about being the last one standing when everyone else had surrendered to the chaos.
By 11:00 PM, the "mess" had been managed. The bride was dancing, the glass had been swept, and the wilting lilies were hidden in the shadows. Elara finally stepped out onto the wide stone balcony to catch her breath. The humid air felt like a weight, but the silence was a relief.
"It's a long drop," a voice said from the shadows of the far corner.
Elara didn't jump. She was too tired for adrenaline. She turned her head slowly to see a man leaning against the stone balustrade. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo jacket; it was slung carelessly over a nearby chair. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and he held a glass of amber liquid that certainly wasn't the cheap catering scotch.
He was watching her with an expression that wasn't quite a smile. It was more like curiosity—the way a scientist looks at a new specimen.
"I wasn't planning on jumping," Elara said.
"No," the man said, pushing off the railing and walking toward her. He moved with a feline sort of grace, a natural confidence that made the air around him feel charged. "You aren't the jumping type. You're the type who stands on the edge just to see if she can handle the wind."
He stopped two feet away. In the dim light of the Japanese lanterns, his eyes were dark and bright at the same time. "I've been watching you all night, Elara."
The use of her name made her heart give a small, traitorous skip. "Do I know you?"
"You know my sister. The bride who was crying in the closet," he said, extending a hand. "I'm Julian. And you've been acting like the anchor for this entire sinking ship for six hours. Tell me... don't your legs ache?"
Elara looked down at her feet, then back at him. She felt a strange prickle at the back of her neck. Usually, people thanked her. They called her a "saint" or a "lifesaver." No one had ever asked if she was tired.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice stiffening with her usual armor of pride. "I like to see things through to the end."
Julian took a step closer, invading her personal space just enough to be bold, but not enough to be rude. He leaned in, the scent of expensive sandalwood and sharp citrus surrounding her.
"There's a difference between finishing a race and standing in a graveyard, Elara," he whispered. He held his glass up, a silent toast. "But I have to admit... watching you refuse to break? It's the most interesting thing I've seen in years."
He drank, his eyes never leaving hers. In that moment, the heat of the night seemed to double. Elara knew she should turn around and go back inside to check on the cake cutting. She should maintain her post.
But for the first time in her life, the "hill" she was standing on felt incredibly lonely, and the man in front of her looked like a very dangerous, very beautiful distraction.
"You're late for the toast," she managed to say.
Julian laughed, a low, melodic sound that vibrated in his chest. "Let them toast. I'd rather stay out here in the dark. It's much more of a thrill, don't you think?"
Elara didn't answer. She didn't know yet that "the thrill" was his only currency. She only knew that for the first time, someone had looked at her armor and seen the person shivering underneath it.