The sky darkened early over London, heavy clouds drifting low like a warning. By the time Elanor and Isabella stepped out of the interview studio, the city lights had already begun to glow scattered gold across the cold stone streets.
The wind that hit them was sharp.
So was the silence.
Isabella walked toward the car with measured steps, her heels tapping steady against the pavement. But Elanor saw it—the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her shoulders tightened every time she remembered the moment his hand touched her cheek.
She moved as if each breath hurt.
He followed several steps behind her, watching the delicate crack in her composure widening with every second. He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to take her hand the way he did in the car earlier. He wanted to erase the fear she carried like a second heartbeat.
But she needed space.
For now.
So he let her walk ahead.
When the driver opened the door, Isabella slipped inside first. Elanor entered moments later, keeping a respectful distance in the seat even though the air between them crackled with unsaid truths.
The car pulled onto the street.
And for almost a full minute, neither spoke.
Then Isabella inhaled slowly. "Elanor."
He turned. "Yes?"
"We can't do this."
His throat tightened. "Do what?"
"This… whatever is happening between us. The lines we keep crossing." She trembled slightly. "It's too much."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I know it's a lot."
"No." She shook her head. "You don't understand. I spent years sewing myself back together. Years convincing myself I didn't need you anymore. Years learning how to breathe without the thought of you breaking me again."
He closed his eyes.
"I know," he said quietly.
"No, you don't." Her voice quivered. "Because you weren't the one who stayed behind after everything fell apart. You weren't the one who had to explain why you disappeared. You weren't the one who had to stand in front of people and pretend they weren't laughing at me."
His hands curled into fists.
"I never laughed at you."
"You hurt me," she whispered. "That was enough."
He inhaled sharply, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow.
"I'm not proud of what I did."
"You shouldn't be."
He turned to her fully then. "Isabella…"
She stared out the window, her reflection trembling in the glass. "Every time you get close, I forget everything I taught myself. And I hate it."
He softened. "You don't hate me."
"I hate how much power you still have." Her voice cracked. "And how easily you use it."
He was quiet.
Painfully quiet.
Then he said, "I never meant to manipulate you."
She glanced at him, eyes wet. "That's the problem, Elanor. You don't have to mean it. You just do."
He leaned closer not touching her, but close enough that she felt heat radiating from him.
"Then tell me how to stop."
She shook her head. "I don't know."
"Tell me what to do."
She swallowed hard. "Let me think."
He nodded slowly. "Okay."
The car drove in silence again, crossing the bridge over the Thames. Raindrops began tapping softly against the windows.
Isabella exhaled shakily. "The interview… the way you defended me… that wasn't strategy."
"No."
"Then what was it?"
"Honesty," he said.
She looked down at her hands. "I don't trust honesty."
"I know."
They passed Westminster, lights reflecting on the river like broken stars.
"Elanor," Isabella whispered, "why did you really choose me? Why force this marriage when we could've stayed strangers?"
He didn't breathe for a second.
Then.
"Because I couldn't stand the idea of someone else standing beside you."
Her eyes widened.
He continued, voice low, steady, unshakably real:
"Because the thought of another man holding you another man being allowed to see you, know you, love you made me lose my mind."
She trembled.
"Because," he exhaled roughly, "I still see you when I close my eyes. Even after everything. Even after I convinced myself I shouldn't."
Her breath faltered.
"Elanor…"
"I didn't choose this marriage for revenge," he said. "Not entirely."
She blinked. "Then why?"
"I chose it because it was the only way I could be near you without breaking my own rules."
"Rules?" she whispered.
He nodded. "The rule that I wasn't allowed to want you anymore."
Her heart twisted painfully.
Her hand trembled on her lap.
He saw it.
He didn't touch her.
He couldn't.
Not when every part of her was already shaking under the weight of what he'd admitted.
"Elanor…" her voice broke softly, "you're making this impossible."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
He gave the smallest, breathless laugh. "You're right. I'm not."
She looked away, hugging her arms around herself as if trying to hold her heart still.
"Elanor… I don't want to fall apart again."
"You won't."
"How can you say that?"
He met her eyes, voice trembling for the first time.
"Because I won't let you fall alone this time."
Her breath escaped her lips in a soft, wounded sound.
She turned her face away and wiped a tear she hadn't meant to shed.
Elanor's fingers twitched.
But he held back.
He didn't wipe it.
Not yet.
The car slowed as it reached the penthouse building. Isabella stepped out quickly, needing space. Needing air. Needing anything to keep her chest from collapsing.
"Elanor," she whispered before he followed her inside, "please… give me a moment."
He froze at the curb.
Then nodded. "Take as long as you need."
She disappeared into the lobby.
He remained outside in the soft rain, letting it sink into his hair, his shirt, his skin cold, grounding, necessary.
He had shaken her world.
But he had shaken his own even more.
Isabella didn't go straight to her room.
She walked to the balcony instead.
Cold wind brushed her face. The entire city glittered beneath her like a mosaic of broken lights. She leaned on the railing, gripping it until her knuckles turned pale.
"Elanor…" she whispered into the air, "why now?"
Why speak the words she had begged for years ago?
Why tear open a wound she had finally learned to live with?
Why say he never stopped loving her when she had spent so long trying to bury the ghost of who they used to be?
She closed her eyes, breath trembling.
A soft sound behind her made her stiffen.
"Elanor," she said without turning, "I"
"It's me."
She spun.
It wasn't Elanor.
It was his father's head butler an older man with a severe expression and dark coat.
"Mr. Harrington?" she whispered. "What are you doing here?"
He bowed his head slightly. "Miss Moreau. Your presence is requested."
Her pulse skipped. "Requested? By who?"
"By the elder Vance," the man said. "Immediately."
Her blood ran cold.
"Elanor's father wants to see me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"For matters concerning the marriage."
A pause.
"And… your future."
A chill ran down her spine.
This wasn't a courtesy.
This was a summons.
As she stared at the butler, rain mist drifting around them, a sickening realization bloomed inside her:
This wasn't about Elanor's love.
Or her fear.
Or their impossible truth.
This was something darker.
Bigger.
Older.
And whatever Elanor's father wanted.
it would not be gentle.
Isabella's fingers tightened around the railing.
This was the beginning of the storm she had always feared.
And for the first time that night.
she wasn't trembling because of Elanor.
She was trembling because she knew:
The past they both tried to outrun
had finally caught up.