London's evening wrapped itself in a pale, silver gloom as the storm clouds gathered above the city slow, deliberate, as though the sky itself anticipated what was coming. Elanor stood alone in the penthouse living room, his jacket discarded on the sofa, sleeves rolled up, breathing deeper than usual. He had been pacing. He never paced. Not for business deals. Not for negotiations. Not even for confrontations with his father.
But Isabella Moreau had the strange ability to unravel him. Quietly. Effortlessly. Completely.
He ran a hand across his jaw and exhaled slowly, trying to clear the tension thrumming in his chest. Her voice still echoed inside him.
"I was trembling because of you."
It had landed inside him like a blow
heavy and unexpected. He should have rejected it. Weaponized it. Controlled it. That had been the plan. That had been the purpose. But instead, those words had left him unsteady in a way he despised.
He turned toward the hallway just as Isabella stepped out of her room.
She wore a black fitted dress paired with a long dark coat, her hair neatly pinned back, revealing the elegant curve of her neck. Her eyes met his with a quiet intensity, then flicked away as if afraid she'd reveal more than she wanted to.
"We should leave soon," she said, fixing her earring without looking at him.
Elanor swallowed. His voice came steadier than he felt. "The car is ready."
She nodded once and moved past him. But he reached out, stopping her gently by the arm.
"Isabella."
She froze.
Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes meeting his with caution. Fragile caution. Hard-earned caution.
"Yes?" she asked.
He searched her face her flushed cheeks, the lingering tremor in her breath, the guarded strength in her eyes.
"You don't have to pretend around me," he said softly.
She blinked. Once. Then twice.
"And what exactly," she whispered, "do you think I'm pretending?"
"That none of this affects you."
She looked away. "It doesn't."
"Isabella."
Her breath shook a little.
"It doesn't," she insisted quietly, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
He stepped closer not enough to touch her again, but close enough that she felt the pull of his presence.
"You think I don't see you?" Elanor asked. "The way you brace yourself every time I get close? The way you hold your breath before you speak? The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching?"
She took a step back.
Too fast.
He recognized it instantly a retreat, not rejection. A defense, not distance.
"Stop," she whispered. "Elanor… stop."
"Why?"
"Because I can't handle this and the gala at the same time."
He let out a slow breath.
Fair.
He stepped back, giving her room to breathe. "Fine. We'll deal with the rest later."
She nodded and headed toward the elevator.
But Elanor lingered.
Because he had seen something in her eyes something he hadn't expected to see again.
Hope.
The car ride to the gala rehearsal at Kensington Hall was silent tensed, vibrating with unspoken words. Isabella sat on the opposite end of the backseat, hands clasped too tightly in her lap. Her gaze was fixed outside the window, but her reflection in the glass betrayed everything she tried to conceal: the conflict in her expression, the uncertainty in her eyes, the faint quiver of her breath every time she nearly glanced at him.
Elanor rested his elbow on the armrest, eyes fixed on her. She refused to look his way. He sensed it wasn't defiance it was fear. Not fear of him hurting her.
Fear of her hurting herself with whatever she still felt for him.
"You don't have to be afraid," he said suddenly.
She stiffened. "I'm not afraid."
"You are."
"No." Her voice sharpened. "I'm cautious. That's different."
"And why do you need caution with me?"
She looked out the window again, avoiding him.
Because you loved me once.
Because you trusted me once.
Because I broke you once.
He didn't say it, but the truth hung thick between them.
He exhaled, turning his gaze forward. "I won't hurt you, Isabella."
Her chest rose in a shaky breath.
"You already have," she whispered.
He froze.
She realized what she said and closed her eyes, regretting it instantly. "Forget I said that."
He didn't speak for a long moment. The silence grew heavy.
"I don't want to forget," he finally said. "Not this time."
She didn't reply.
She didn't have to.
Her silence said more than any words could.
The car stopped in front of Kensington Hall an elegant venue with tall stone pillars and warm golden lights spilling through the arched windows. Paparazzi hadn't arrived yet; tonight was only rehearsal. But tomorrow tomorrow, the world would be watching.
Elanor stepped out first, then turned to offer his hand. Isabella hesitated, staring at his palm like it was a choice she didn't want to make.
"Isabella," he said gently, "take it."
She swallowed and placed her hand in his.
It fit too easily.
Too naturally.
He tightened his hold just slightly a silent promise, a reassurance. She didn't pull away.
Inside the hall, staff arranged decorations, floral stands, and velvet ropes. A coordinator greeted them with a rehearsed smile.
"Mr. Vance, Ms. Moreau welcome. We'll walk you through part of tomorrow's procession."
Isabella lifted her chin, slipping into her composed persona. Elanor walked beside her, the air between them still charged.
"You'll enter together through the main archway," the coordinator explained. "Stop here for photos, then continue down the aisle while holding hands."
Isabella stiffened.
The coordinator continued, unfazed. "Then you'll stand here, look at each other, and smile. You'll greet the hosts, accept the congratulations, and"
"How long do we need to hold hands?" Isabella cut in.
"Preferably the entire entrance."
Isabella forced a nod, but Elanor felt her fingers tense in his.
He leaned in, voice low enough only she could hear. "You're shaking."
"I'm not," she whispered back.
"You are."
She exhaled tightly. "Just… let me breathe."
He loosened his grip slightly.
She glanced up, startled.
"You listened," she said quietly.
He met her eyes. "You asked."
She looked away quickly, overwhelmed.
The coordinator stepped back. "Ready to practice?"
Elanor looked at Isabella, offering his arm—not as demand, but as invitation.
She hesitated. Then slipped her hand around his arm.
It felt right. Too right.
They walked under the archway, their steps synchronized without effort. The hall lights shimmered across the marble floor, glowing warm gold against the cold air between them.
Halfway down the aisle, Isabella spoke in a whisper.
"Elanor… why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This." She gestured slightly at their joined hands. "Being gentle."
His voice was low. "Would you prefer cold?"
"No," she admitted softly. "But… I don't understand you anymore."
"You don't have to."
"But I want to."
He stopped walking.
She halted too, eyes wide.
"Elanor why did you really ask me to marry you?" she whispered. "The truth. Not revenge. Not business. You."
He stared at her for a long moment long enough that she thought he wouldn't answer.
Then he said, voice barely audible:
"Because I couldn't watch someone else stand beside you."
Her breath caught.
Her fingers tightened around his sleeve.
"Elanor…"
He stepped closer.
"I've lost you once. I refuse to lose you again."
Her lips parted in a trembling inhale.
"You don't get to say things like that," she whispered. "You don't get to make me hope again."
"I'm not asking for your hope."
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm asking for your truth."
She trembled visibly.
"My truth is dangerous," she said.
"So am I," he whispered back.
Her pulse raced.
"Elanor," she breathed.
He lowered his forehead to hers not kissing her, not touching beyond the barest point of contact, but the closeness was enough to shatter every wall she'd rebuilt.
"You still love me," he murmured.
She squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't."
"Say it."
"No."
"Isabella—"
"It doesn't matter anymore."
"It matters to me."
She shook her head, stepping back, tearing the closeness apart with a sharp breath.
"No," she said, voice cracking slightly. "If I admit it… I won't survive this marriage."
He stayed still.
He didn't reach for her.
He didn't push.
He only said:
"Then let me be the one who breaks first."
Her breath hitched.
She stared at him.
And for the first time in years…
Elanor Vance wasn't the cold one.
She was.
Because she turned away not out of indifference, but out of fear her heart wouldn't survive another fall.
"We should finish rehearsal," she whispered.
But the question she didn't ask hung between them like smoke:
How long until one of us shatters?
Elanor watched her walk forward alone.
And for the first time in a very long time
He knew the answer.
Not long at all.
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