Title: Forever, After All
The rain was a relentless drumbeat against the penthouse windows, a gray curtain that blurred the glittering skyline of Veridia. Leo Thorne stood before the glass, a crystal tumbler of whiskey forgotten in his hand. The silence in the expansive room was a living thing, thick and suffocating, broken only by the storm outside and the quiet, steady breathing of the woman sleeping in his bed.
Elena.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze tracing the outline of her form beneath the silk sheets. She was curled on her side, her dark hair fanned across his pillow—*his* pillow, in *his* sanctuary, a place no one had ever been invited, let alone spent the night. The events of the evening replayed in his mind with cinematic clarity: the charity gala, the sudden power outage that plunged the ballroom into chaos, the cold press of a gun barrel against his ribs in the scrambling dark, and Elena's sharp cry as she shoved him aside, taking the blow meant for him—not a bullet, but a heavy crystal vase swung like a club, shattering against her shoulder.
He had moved on instinct then. The Leo Thorne the world knew, the charming, frivolous playboy, evaporated. In his place was something colder, sharper, a version of himself he kept locked away. He'd disarmed the assailant with two brutal, efficient moves, hearing the satisfying crack of bone, before security flooded the room with flashlights. In the stunned silence that followed, his entire focus had narrowed to Elena, cradling her injured arm, her face pale but fiercely defiant.
"You're bleeding," she'd stated, looking not at her own wound, but at the cut on his temple from a flying shard.
He hadn't taken her home. He couldn't. The threat was too immediate, too poorly understood. His driver had weaved through the rain-slicked streets to the one place he felt was impregnable: the Thorne Tower penthouse. His personal doctor had been summoned and dismissed, confirming Elena's injury was a severe bruise, not a break. She'd refused painkillers, accepting only an ice pack and his silent, simmering company.
Now, watching her sleep, the facade was impossible to maintain. The carefully constructed persona of "The Playboy" felt like a cheap suit, one he was desperately tired of wearing. It had started as a shield, a way to deflect the expectations of his family's corporate empire and the wolves that circled it. To be seen as a lightweight was to be underestimated. But Elena, with her perceptive artist's eyes and a stubbornness that matched his own, had begun to see the cracks in the veneer.
"You're not who you pretend to be," she had whispered in the car, her head leaning against the window, her voice slurred with adrenaline and pain. "And tonight wasn't random, was it?"
He hadn't answered. He owed her the truth, but the truth was a minefield.
A soft groan came from the bed. Elena shifted, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looked disoriented, then her gaze found him by the window. She didn't startle. She simply watched him, as if she'd expected to find him standing guard.
"You should be sleeping," he said, his voice rough from disuse.
"So should you." She pushed herself up gingerly, wincing as she adjusted the pillows. The strap of her silk slip dress had slipped down, revealing the ugly, darkening bruise that spread across her collarbone and shoulder. A visceral anger, hot and protective, surged through him.
"Who was he, Leo?" she asked, cutting through any pretense of small talk.
He set the tumbler down with a soft click. "I don't know. Not yet. Security is reviewing the footage, but the outage was too convenient. Professional."
"And the target was you." It wasn't a question. "This… this is the 'complicated' you always vaguely refer to, isn't it? The reason for the rotating security details you try to pass off as drivers. The reason you live like a fortress."
He walked to the edge of the bed, sitting down on the duvet, careful to keep space between them. The intimacy of the setting was a potent distraction he couldn't afford. "My family's company, Thorne Global… we're finalizing a merger. It's contentious. A rival group stands to lose billions. I'm the public face, the easiest target to rattle."
"To kill?" The word hung in the air, stark and terrible.
"To send a message," he corrected, though he wasn't sure he believed it. "Intimidation is usually the first step."
Elena reached out, her fingers brushing the cut on his temple. The touch was electric, a current that bypassed all his defenses. "You knew this could happen. And you still… you still pursued this. Us."
"I tried to keep you at a distance," he admitted, the confession torn from him. "The parties, the flippant remarks, the parade of other women—it was a script. A terrible, hurtful script designed to make you walk away. To keep you safe."
Her eyes searched his, and he saw the moment she understood. The hurt that had clouded her features for weeks shifted, transforming into a dawning, awe-filled comprehension. "You idiot," she whispered, but there was no venom, only a heartbreaking softness. "You magnificent, self-sacrificing idiot."
"It didn't work," he said, a ghost of his old smirk touching his lips. "You're remarkably stubborn."
"And you're a terrible actor." She sighed, letting her hand fall. "When the lights went out, you didn't freeze like a socialite. You moved like a soldier. You put yourself between me and the threat before I even knew where it was coming from."
He had. It had been pure, unthinking instinct. The thought of her being hurt was unacceptable. A greater terror than any boardroom hostile takeover or assassin in the dark.
"Elena, this life… it's not gallery openings and champagne toasts. It's boardrooms and bloodsport. It's dangerous. And now, because of me, you're in the crossfire." He stood, pacing away, running a hand through his hair. "The safest thing, the only right thing, would be for you to leave. I can have you relocated, somewhere beautiful and remote, until this is over."
"Is that what you want?" Her voice was steady, clear.
He stopped, his back to her. The words were a lie, and they choked him. "It doesn't matter what I want."
"It matters to me."
He turned. She had gotten out of bed, standing tall despite her injury, the silk of her dress whispering against her skin. In the storm-light, she looked like a warrior queen, fragile and indomitable all at once.
"I am not a thing to