London woke with a thin mist rolling across the Thames, softening the skyline into pale silver. The world looked calm, almost gentle, but inside Elanor Vance's penthouse, silence felt sharper than any blade.
Isabella Moreau stood in the kitchen alcove, still in the clothes from last
night white blouse slightly wrinkled, hair pinned but no longer perfect. She held a cup of tea between her hands like she needed its warmth to anchor her.
Elanor entered quietly.
He didn't announce himself.
He never did.
Isabella felt him before she saw him, her posture subtly tightening not fear, not discomfort, but something more complicated. A tension that had begun the night they signed the contract, growing with each truth they refused to speak aloud.
"You're up early," Elanor said, voice calm but not cold.
"I didn't sleep much."
"We figured that out yesterday," he replied.
Her lips tugged in the faintest ghost of a smirk, but it died quickly.
He approached the counter, stopping a measured distance away. Close enough to speak without raising his voice. Far enough not to intrude. That delicate
dance the space between them was becoming a language of its own.
"About yesterday," he said carefully.
"Which part of yesterday?" Isabella asked, eyes fixed on the London skyline. "The media storm? The board calls? Or the moment your father tried to interfere in our lives?"
Elanor paused.
There it was the invisible bruise between them.
"My father won't get involved again."
"You can't promise that."
"I can control it."
"Can you?" she asked, turning her gaze to him fully this time. "Because from where I stand, your father doesn't let go of anything. Not control, not legacy, not you."
The truth in her voice stung more than he cared to admit.
He exhaled slowly. "I'm not my father."
"I know," she said quietly. "That's why this arrangement can work. But if he keeps meddling."
"He won't," Elanor cut in, firmer this time. "Not with what I have planned."
She studied him, as if searching for cracks. "Planned?"
He didn't elaborate, and she didn't press. She knew the look of a man building a fortress in his head she had grown up around men like that, though none as disciplined as Elanor.
Still, silence fell again.
Not hostile. Not uncomfortable. Just… heavy.
A morning built from fragile peace.
She sipped her tea. "We need to review the engagement statement before the press conference at noon."
"I already drafted the update."
"I'm aware. And I'm also aware that your version is too clean. Too polished." She tilted her head. "People believe flaws, Elanor. Not perfection."
"You want flaws?" he asked.
"I want authenticity or something that looks like it."
"You think we're not believable?"
She didn't even blink. "Not yet."
He almost almost smiled. "We can fix that."
"I'm not interested in pretending," she replied.
His eyes locked with hers. "Neither am I."
Her breath hitched just slightly, a nearly invisible reaction, but he saw it. Isabella Moreau didn't slip often but when she did, it was like catching sight of an eclipse.
He moved closer, just a single step. Enough that his presence warmed the air around her.
"Yesterday," he said softly, "you asked if I slept."
"Yes."
"You knew why I didn't."
Her throat tightened, but she kept her gaze steady. "Your father."
"Not just him."
She blinked not confusion, but surprise.
Elanor rarely admitted anything without calculation.
"Last night," he continued, "was the first time in years someone stood between me and my family without asking what they gained from it."
Isabella swallowed. "Don't misunderstand, Elanor. I wasn't defending you. I was defending the contract."
"Is that what you told yourself?"
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't lean in. He didn't touch her.
Yet the air grew warmer, denser.
She looked away first.
"Elanor," she said, steadying her breath, "this marriage is a business arrangement. Nothing more."
"That's not what worries me."
"Then what does?"
"That you think you need to say that."
Her jaw tightened.
He stepped back just enough to break the tension but not enough to sever its thread.
"Finish your tea," he said, turning toward the hallway. "We leave in twenty minutes."
"For where?"
"You'll see."
The car ride was silent, but not empty.
Isabella watched the city blur past the glossy offices, the fog-draped bridges, the vendors opening their stalls. London looked like a city waking from a long dream.
"Elanor," she said at last, "are you taking me to another office meeting?"
"No."
"Another photoshoot?"
"No."
"…Then where?"
"You'll see," he repeated.
If it had been anyone else, she would've snapped. But Elanor was a man who rarely revealed plans early. So she waited.
They arrived at a quiet street lined with old brick buildings and iron railings. Not corporate. Not aristocratic. Almost… ordinary.
She stepped out cautiously.
"This is.."
"My mother's neighborhood," Elanor finished.
Isabella froze.
"Elanor," she said gently, "you don't owe me this."
"I'm not giving you anything," he said. "I'm showing you why yesterday mattered."
They walked slowly, their steps echoing against the cobblestones.
"When I was young," he said, "my mother used to bring me here. She said the people in this neighborhood remembered your name, not your money."
Isabella's expression softened.
"She died when I was 14," Elanor continued. "After that, my father rewrote everything she stood for. The Vance legacy became what he wanted not what she built."
Isabella swallowed. "Elanor…"
"You asked yesterday if my father still owns me." He looked at her. "This is your answer."
She understood.
This was the part of him untouched by power, untouched by revenge. A part he hadn't shared with anyone not even himself, perhaps.
He stopped in front of an old, black iron gate.
"My mother taught me something," he said quietly. "That the people we choose to stand beside are more important than the people we're told to follow."
Isabella's breath caught.
"Why are you showing me this?" she whispered.
"Because," he said, eyes dark and steady, "the world believes our engagement is a strategy. A performance. But I need you to know this isn't about them. It's not even about the contract."
His voice lowered.
"It's about the fact that yesterday, for the first time in years, someone stood beside me. Not behind me. Not in front of me. Beside me."
The morning air felt warmer around them.
Isabella's voice trembled not fear, not anger, but something she'd sworn she buried.
"Elanor… this wasn't part of the deal."
"I know."
"And you're risking too much by trusting me."
"I know that too."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore.
It was fragile.
Precious.
A moment suspended between past wounds and future storms.
Then Isabella finally said, barely audible:
"…We should go. The press is waiting."
He nodded, stepping aside to let her
pass but as she walked forward, he said softly:
"Isabella?"
She turned.
"If there's ever a day you no longer want to stand beside me," he said, "tell me before you walk away."
Something flickered in her eyes pain, fear, longing, regret all at once, gone in an instant.
She looked away.
"I don't break agreements, Elanor."
He stepped closer close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath.
"This isn't an agreement."
For a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.
Then, with a steadiness she didn't feel, she whispered:
"…We should go."
And when she turned, Elanor followed
his steps measured, his expression unreadable, his heart beating faster than he allowed himself to admit.
The morning wasn't peaceful anymore.
Something had shifted.
Something neither of them fully understood.
But both felt it.
And London, washed in pale winter light, held its breath for what would come next.