I avoided the executive floor like it was contagious.
Killian's presence hovered like secondhand smoke—unseen but thick enough to choke me. Every elevator ding had me stiffening. Every footstep in the hallway had my chest tightening, expecting him.
But three days passed.
Three days of silent meetings, curt emails, and a whole lot of pretending the air didn't crackle between us every time we shared a room.
And I was doing fine.
Until the company-wide fundraiser gala was announced.
"Black-tie event," Carla said, dropping the memo on my desk with too much excitement. "A rooftop venue, string quartet, skyline view. Oh, and mandatory attendance for execs."
I stared at the invitation like it was a bomb.
Because it was.
Killian would be there.
In a tux.
With that smile that used to undo me in seconds.
I swallowed. "Can I send a proxy?"
Carla blinked. "You're the head of coordination, Elara. You are the proxy."
Right. Of course.
She tilted her head. "Is this about Mr. Rivers?"
I shot her a sharp look.
Her eyes widened. "Wait—no way. Did you two…?"
"I have a meeting in five," I cut in, standing abruptly.
She held up her hands. "Say no more. But if it helps, you'll look stunning in black satin."
I barely heard her as I rushed toward the elevator, fingers shaking as I punched the ground floor button.
I needed air.
Again.
Outside, the city smelled like exhaust and burnt coffee. Familiar. Unforgiving. Real.
I walked until the tension in my chest settled enough for me to breathe, stopping at the corner café I used to visit during grad school. The place hadn't changed—same chipped wooden chairs, same chalkboard menu, same barista with too many piercings.
But what had changed was the voice that greeted me when I stepped inside.
"Well, well. If it isn't the girl who used to order hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and a shot of espresso like it wasn't an identity crisis in a cup."
I turned sharply.
And froze.
"Jude?"
The tall figure leaned against the counter, grinning. His hair was longer now, curls falling over his forehead, and he wore a charcoal blazer like he'd stepped off a fashion runway. But the mischief in his eyes was still the same.
"In the flesh," he said. "I thought I hallucinated you walking past."
I stared, stunned. "What are you even doing here? I thought you moved to London."
"I did. For three years. Now I'm back. Starting a branch of my PR firm here in Manhattan. You're looking at the CEO."
My jaw dropped. "Seriously?"
He shrugged modestly. "What can I say? New York missed me."
I laughed, for the first time in days. "Damn. You haven't changed."
"Well, my skincare routine has improved dramatically."
We slid into a booth, coffee cups steaming between us. Jude had been a friend back in college. A good friend. The kind who had held my hand through finals, heartbreaks, and one very regrettable tequila night.
And once, only once, he'd tried to kiss me.
But I was too deep in love with Killian then to even notice.
Now? I wasn't sure.
"I can't believe it's you," I said, still smiling.
He studied me. "You look stronger."
I raised a brow. "Stronger?"
"Yeah. Back then, you were... soft. Hopeful. Kind of like a flower trying to bloom in winter."
I chuckled bitterly. "Life has a way of toughening petals."
He tilted his head. "What happened, Elara?"
I hesitated. Then: "He came back."
Jude didn't ask who. He just nodded.
"The ghost."
"Exactly."
"And you?"
"Trying not to unravel," I whispered.
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Then let me help you hold the thread."
The gala arrived faster than I wanted it to.
I showed up in black satin, as Carla predicted, my hair swept up, my lips painted wine red. I looked like power.
I felt like panic.
The rooftop was glittering with city lights, laughter echoing around champagne glasses and violin strings. Everyone was dressed to impress, and I did my best to blend into the elegance instead of the emotions clawing inside me.
Then I saw him.
Killian.
Standing by the bar, tux tailored to sinful perfection, a whiskey glass in one hand, the city reflecting in his eyes.
He looked like every dream I used to pray would come true.
And every nightmare I'd barely survived.
Before I could turn away, he saw me.
His gaze raked down my figure slowly, like a memory he didn't want to forget.
Then he started walking.
No.
I needed air—again.
But just as I turned, a voice stopped me.
"Elara!"
I spun to see Jude entering the venue, sharp in navy and confidence. He looked like a storm I wanted to get lost in.
Killian halted.
I smiled—too wide—and grabbed Jude's hand.
"I was hoping you'd show up," I said.
He grinned. "Wouldn't miss it."
Killian's jaw ticked from across the room.
Good.
Two could play this game.
The night blurred into conversation, dancing, and sidelong glances. Jude stayed close, protective without being possessive, charming the guests and making me laugh so hard I almost forgot the weight on my chest.
Almost.
Because Killian's eyes never left me.
Not once.
When I stepped onto the dance floor with Jude, I felt that gaze burning through my skin like a brand.
And when Jude leaned close to whisper, "You're killing him, you know," I didn't deny it.
"I know."
The music slowed.
A hand tapped Jude's shoulder.
"Mind if I cut in?" Killian's voice was smooth but sharp.
Jude hesitated, then looked at me.
My heartbeat rioted.
"I'm fine," I murmured.
Jude gave Killian a nod before stepping away.
And suddenly, it was just us.
The man who once held my heart like it was holy.
And the woman who had learned how to stitch it back together without him.
His hand slid around my waist. "You look…"
"Don't," I said.
He exhaled. "Why is this so hard?"
"Because you left," I whispered.
"And I came back."
"Too late."
The music swelled. Our bodies moved in sync even as our hearts warred.
"Elara—"
"No," I cut in. "Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you miss me."
He stopped dancing.
"I do."
I looked up at him, eyes stinging. "Then you shouldn't have broken me."
Silence.
Then, softly: "I was trying to save you."
"I didn't ask to be saved. I asked you to stay."
A breath hitched in his chest.
"Elara, if you knew what my father threatened—"
"Then tell me."
"Now?"
"No. Then. Back when I begged you to explain and all you gave me was silence."
He looked gutted.
I stepped back.
"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Rivers."
Then I turned, walking away into the crowd.
Later that night, as I slipped off my heels and sat on my apartment floor, my phone buzzed.
Killian: Meet me tomorrow. Noon. Just you and me. I'll tell you everything.
I stared at the message.
Then typed back: One hour. No lies.
Killian: Deal.