He held her.
Not because she was fragile.
Not because she was broken.
But because she asked.
And that was the real miracle — Elara Quinn never asked for anything. Never showed her hand. Never showed her need.
Until now.
Jace wrapped his arms around her as if shielding her from everything: the past, the fear, the man who threatened to unravel her, and even her own guilt.
She didn't cry.
She just breathed.
Pressed her face to his chest and inhaled like it was the first clean air she'd tasted in years.
Back in the penthouse, they didn't speak.
Not at first.
She walked ahead of him, barefoot now, her heels abandoned by the elevator. Her bun had loosened, strands of hair falling over her cheek.
He followed silently.
To the lounge.
Where it had all begun.
Elara stopped by the piano, fingers grazing the polished wood.
"Play something," Jace said softly.
She blinked at him. "You think I know how?"
"I think you know how to do a lot of things people don't expect."
A pause.
Then she sat on the bench.
Pressed one key.
Then another.
A slow, uncertain melody emerged — haunting, imperfect, but hers.
She played for a full minute before stopping.
And when she turned to him, her eyes were different.
Wider.
Clearer.
"I don't know how to do this," she whispered.
"What? Be soft?"
"Be wanted… and still be safe."
Jace moved to her.
Knelt in front of her between her legs.
Placed his hands gently on her thighs.
"You are safe with me."
Her fingers trembled against his jaw.
"I might ruin you too."
He smiled. "Try."
She kissed him first.
Desperate, like the night he first touched her.
But this time, it wasn't to forget.
This time, it was to feel.
Jace rose, pulling her to her feet, their lips locked. Their bodies flush. His hands gripped her waist, dragging her against him as if the heat between them was the only thing keeping either of them alive.
Clothes became obstacles.
Her blouse was unbuttoned slowly, reverently.
His shirt tossed to the side.
Her fingers dug into his back as his lips traveled down her throat, tracing the line of her collarbone, the hollow of her shoulder.
She gasped when his tongue flicked the curve of her breast.
And moaned when his hands slid under the waistband of her pants, palms against bare skin.
She stepped out of them slowly, completely bare now.
Every part of her on display — and for the first time, not hiding.
He didn't rush her.
Didn't slam her against the wall or throw her onto the couch.
He picked her up, one hand under her thighs, the other at her back, and carried her.
To her bedroom.
The one always locked.
Tonight, it was wide open.
Inside, it smelled of lavender and expensive perfume. Everything was in its place. Cold. Immaculate.
Until he laid her on the bed and ruined it with heat.
He undressed slowly.
Letting her watch.
Her eyes raked over every scar, every cut, every muscle honed by survival.
"You're beautiful," she murmured.
He smirked. "You've seen me shirtless a dozen times."
"That's not what I mean."
She reached for him.
And he let her explore.
Her fingers traced his chest, down his stomach, then lower. She took her time, and he groaned when her hand wrapped around him, slow and firm.
"I could get addicted to you," she whispered.
"Then don't fight it," he said, breathless.
He kissed her again.
Deeper.
Slower.
He pressed her into the mattress, letting his body cover hers.
And when he slid inside her, it wasn't rough.
It was a homecoming.
They moved together like fire and silk.
His thrusts were slow at first, deep and drawn out, as if savoring every second.
She arched against him, nails clawing into his shoulders, whispering things she couldn't say in the daylight.
"Don't stop."
"Right there."
"Harder."
He gave her everything she asked for.
Until the rhythm became chaos.
Until her cries filled the room.
Until his name fell from her lips like a plea and a prayer.
She came undone beneath him, wrapped around him, eyes wide and unguarded.
And when he followed, it wasn't just physical.
It was everything.
The anger. The lust. The fear. The pain.
All of it — emptied into her.
Afterward, they lay tangled in her sheets.
Sweat cooling.
Heartbeats syncing.
He stroked her arm in lazy patterns while she rested her head on his chest.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Until she whispered, "I don't deserve this."
"You do."
"I don't."
He turned to face her, brushing her cheek. "You don't get to decide that alone anymore."
She looked away. "I'm not used to someone choosing me after seeing everything."
"Then get used to it."
She didn't respond.
But her fingers curled around his.
And didn't let go.
Sometime after midnight, Jace stirred.
She was still asleep.
Peaceful now.
No furrowed brow. No clenched fists.
Just Elara.
Soft. Bare. Real.
He slid out of bed carefully and crossed to her nightstand for his phone.
That's when he saw it.
A second folder.
Unmarked.
He hesitated.
But it was slightly open.
Inside — photos.
A man.
Younger than Raymond. Same dark hair. Different build.
And letters. Handwritten.
"Elara, I meant it when I said I loved you…"
Jace flipped the page.
Another photo.
Elara kissing the man in public.
Dated: six years ago.
And at the bottom of the stack — a signed contract.
Transfer of controlling shares.
The name signed at the bottom?
Dorian Thorne.
He froze.
That name…
He'd heard it before. In headlines. In business exposés.
Thorne Industries.
A tech empire that crumbled overnight.
Rumors of betrayal. Anonymous leaks. Scandal.
And Elara was at the center of it.
Behind him, she stirred.
"Jace?"
He quickly set the file back.
"Yeah?"
She blinked up at him, sleepy and soft. "Come back to bed."
He climbed in beside her.
Pulled her close.
And whispered in her ear—
"Whatever happened… I'm still here."
She exhaled.
Like she'd been holding that breath for years.