Snow fell on the tarmac like forgotten feathers, ghosting the edges of the runway as Eleanor stood beside Daniel's duffel bag, her gloved fingers tightening and releasing.
The private jet stood waiting.
Daniel faced her with a furrowed brow and the kind of haunted gaze men wear when they don't want to say goodbye but know they must.
"This isn't forever," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
Eleanor didn't trust her voice. The wind bit into her coat, but it wasn't the cold that made her shiver—it was the uncertainty.
She nodded instead.
Daniel kissed her softly, then again—harder, deeper—as if trying to memorize the taste of her.
"I'll call every day," he promised.
She tried to smile, even though her throat was a locked box.
"Don't forget who you are over there," she finally whispered. "You're not just a camera. You're a man who taught me how to feel again."
He gave a soft laugh and pulled her in for one last kiss.
Then he was gone.
The plane door shut, the engines roared, and Eleanor stood on the tarmac long after he disappeared into the sky.
---
The boutique felt colder without him. She threw herself into work—redesigning the spring line, negotiating fiercely with the board, and rejecting the French acquisition offer without flinching.
Lila noticed the shift.
"You're designing like a woman possessed," she remarked one afternoon.
"Maybe I am."
Truth was, the loneliness turned her fingers into soldiers. She stitched until her knuckles ached, cut fabrics with the precision of a surgeon, and ignored every ache of missing him by creating gowns that bled passion.
Her latest piece was called The Vacancy.
It was a gown in winter blue silk, split down the back, open and exposed. Vulnerable.
She placed it in the front window.
The press went wild.
But behind the camera flashes, she felt hollow.
---
Across the ocean, Daniel wasn't sleeping.
The Stanton residency gave him prestige, yes. Exposure. But every shot he took felt… lesser.
His models were lithe and professional, but none of them had Eleanor's fierce, scarred elegance. None of them could lift their chin the way she did—like survival was a crown.
He missed her scent in his bed. Her fingertips against his back. Her sharp wit and velvet kisses.
Late at night, he'd stare at the screen, rereading their messages.
Her: The board wants a vote next week. They smell blood.
Him: Then remind them who bled to build it.
Her: It's not that easy anymore.
Him: It never was.
---
Back in London, Eleanor entered the boardroom dressed not in silk, but in armor: high-waisted trousers, black turtleneck, hair slicked into a knot.
She walked in like war.
The Cavendish twins—Miles and Henrietta—were already seated, smug.
"We've reviewed the last quarter's press," Miles began. "The brand is still strong, but investors are... uncomfortable with your current direction."
Henrietta chimed in. "And your... entanglement... with Mr. Quinn has been deemed a liability."
Eleanor met their gazes without blinking.
"Do you know what burns brighter than gossip?" she asked.
They exchanged glances.
"Legacy," she answered. "And I'm not surrendering mine."
Then she slid the folder across the table—financials from her latest capsule collection. The Vacancy had sold out in forty-eight hours. Fashion editors were calling it "the birth of a new vulnerability in couture."
The room fell quiet.
Henrietta cleared her throat. "We... weren't aware of these numbers."
"Because while you were sharpening your knives," Eleanor said, rising, "I was sewing my shield."
She left the room before they could respond, heels clicking like the ticking of a time bomb.
---
That night, she sat in her apartment alone, watching the snow fall like static across the windowpane.
She didn't cry.
Not this time.
Instead, she opened a bottle of red wine, lit a single candle, and called Daniel.
He answered on the second ring.
"I wore war paint today," she said.
"You always look better in fire," he murmured.
They didn't speak much more.
They just stayed connected, breathing in time, hearts spanning an ocean.
And though the silence was heavy, it wasn't lonely.
Because it carried the weight of something real.