Sunlight painted soft gold across the hardwood floor of Daniel's studio. Eleanor stirred beneath a rumpled sheet, her bare leg emerging from the tangle of white cotton and lingering heat. For once, she wasn't thinking about schedules, shows, or silk shipments.
She was thinking about him—his mouth against her collarbone, his laugh in the dark, his hands threading through her hair like he was memorizing every strand.
Daniel stood shirtless at the far end of the room, sipping black coffee from a chipped mug, camera strap hanging around his neck. He hadn't taken a picture of her this morning—not yet—but she could feel his eyes on her like a lens trained on something sacred.
"You're watching me," she said softly.
"I've been watching you since the moment I met you."
She pulled the sheet tighter around her, though not out of modesty. Somehow, with Daniel, even her nakedness felt like honesty.
He crossed the space to her, crouching by the couch.
"I don't want to go back," she admitted.
"Then don't."
Her lips parted. "I have a business. A brand. A reputation. People depend on me."
He brushed a knuckle along her cheek. "And who do you depend on?"
She looked away. "No one."
Daniel's hand dropped. "That's not strength, Eleanor. That's fear in a ballgown."
His words pierced deeper than she wanted to admit. Because he was right. She'd built her world so tall, so polished, that no one could get in. Not even herself.
"I don't know how to let go," she whispered.
Daniel stood, then offered her his hand.
"Come with me."
She stared at it. At him.
"Where?"
"To where you stop pretending."
---
He took her to the rooftop.
It wasn't glamorous—peeling paint, rusted pipes, and a faded old chair—but the view was unfiltered. London stretched out in every direction: chaotic, flawed, alive.
They stood side by side, bare feet on concrete, wind in their hair.
"This," Daniel said, "is where I come to remember I'm small."
She smiled faintly. "And that's a good thing?"
"It keeps me real. It keeps me humble."
Eleanor sat on the ledge, hugging her knees.
"You scare me," she said quietly.
He looked down at her. "Why?"
"Because when I'm with you, I'm not Eleanor Whitmore, the icon. I'm just… me."
Daniel knelt in front of her, resting his hands on her knees. "And that's the woman I want. The real one. Not the one hidden behind heels and interviews and carefully curated smiles."
She reached up, threading her fingers through his hair.
"Kiss me," she said.
He did.
But this time it wasn't rushed or desperate. It was slow, exploratory—like a map unfolding. Their mouths moved together in soft, unspoken confession.
She pulled him down with her to the rooftop floor, her back against cold stone, their bodies pressed together beneath the open sky.
They didn't strip down quickly. This wasn't about urgency. It was about presence.
Every button undone was a declaration.
Every moan, a secret released.
His hands ran over her ribs, the dip of her hip, the tender spot beneath her breast.
"You feel like silk," he murmured.
"You taste like sin," she replied.
They moved like dancers—slow, synchronized, soaked in meaning. She whispered his name like a prayer. He answered with gasps and murmured endearments.
When it ended, she curled against him, their bare skin cooling beneath the rising wind.
"I don't think I can go back to who I was," she confessed.
Daniel didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "Good."
---
They returned to the studio in comfortable silence. No makeup. No masks.
Eleanor sat by the window wrapped in one of Daniel's shirts, her legs tucked beneath her. He handed her tea, his hand lingering on hers.
"There's something I want to show you," he said, walking toward a closed cabinet in the corner.
He pulled out a large flat portfolio and placed it gently on the table.
Inside—photos.
Of her.
But not the versions she was used to.
These were raw.
Hair undone. Face flushed. Eyes open, vulnerable, fierce.
One showed her in mid-laughter, lips parted, eyes scrunched.
Another—her fingers tangled in silk, eyes closed as if reliving a memory.
And another—nude, silhouetted against the window, body relaxed and powerful.
Eleanor's breath caught.
"These… these are…"
"Beautiful," Daniel said softly.
She looked up. "You never asked permission."
"I didn't need to," he replied. "I wasn't taking your picture. I was capturing you… when you finally let yourself be."
She touched one of the prints.
"I've never seen myself like this," she whispered.
"I have," he said. "Every time I look at you."
She closed the book gently.
"What happens now, Daniel?"
He leaned in, forehead to hers.
"That's up to you. I've already chosen."
She held her breath. "Chosen what?"
"You."