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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: Stormy Skies

The next morning, Elara woke up to the sound of rain tapping against the window. She rolled over, expecting to find Ethan's side of the bed empty, as it had been for the past three weeks, but the sight still sent a pang through her chest.

​She'd spent the night replaying her conversation with Damien Blackwood in her head, turning it over and over like a stone in a river. There was something about him—something magnetic, something dangerous—that she couldn't quite put her finger on.​

But she knew one thing: she couldn't stop thinking about him.

​She dragged herself out of bed, wincing as her joints ached. The doctor had told her it was stress, that her body was breaking down under the weight of everything she'd been through. But some days, it felt like more than that. Like her very spirit was withering away, slowly but surely.​

She pulled on her uniform, staring at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger—pale, gaunt, with eyes that held none of the spark they once had. When had she become so... small? So lost?

​She shook her head, as if that could somehow dislodge the thoughts. There was no time for self-pity. She had a shift to get to, bills to pay, a life to try to put back together, one shattered piece at a time.

​The walk to the diner was miserable, the rain soaking through her thin jacket and chilling her to the bone. By the time she arrived, her teeth were chattering and her hair was plastered to her face.​

"Look like a drowned rat," Mabel said by way of greeting, sliding a cup of hot coffee across the counter. "Sit down, warm up. I'll handle the counter for a bit.

"​Elara smiled gratefully, wrapping her hands around the steaming mug. "Thanks, Mabel."​

The older woman nodded, her eyes softening. "Heard from Ethan yet?"​

Elara shook her head, staring down into her coffee. "No. And I don't expect to."​

Mabel clucked her tongue. "Good riddance, if you ask me. Man who'd leave a woman like you ain't worth the ground you walk on."​

Elara managed a weak smile. "Easy for you to say."​

"Easy for me to mean," Mabel said, setting a plate of pancakes down in front of a regular—a truck driver named Jim who'd been coming to the diner for as long as Elara had worked there. "You're better off without him, honey. Trust me."

​Elara wasn't so sure. For all his faults, Ethan had been her life for the past five years. They'd met in college, both studying art history, both dreaming of a life filled with museums and galleries and quiet nights at home. But somewhere along the way, their paths had diverged. Ethan had gotten a job at a prestigious auction house, had started moving in circles Elara could never hope to penetrate. And she... she'd stayed the same, content with her simple life, her small dreams.

​Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she hadn't been enough.​

The bell above the door jingled, and Elara looked up, her heart skipping a beat when she saw who it was. Damien Blackwood stood in the doorway, shaking the rain from his umbrella, his eyes scanning the diner until they landed on her.​

He smiled—a small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips—and made his way toward the counter. Elara's breath caught in her throat, and she quickly looked down, pretending to be busy with the coffee machine.

​"Ms. Hart," he said, taking a seat on one of the stools. "A pleasure to see you again."

​Elara's head shot up. "How do you know my last name?"​

He nodded toward the credit card machine behind the counter, where his receipt from the previous night was still sitting. Her name was printed there, along with the diner's information.​

"Right," she said, feeling herself blush. "Of course."

​"Can I get the same as yesterday?" he asked. "Black coffee, and the special."

​"Sure," Elara said, grabbing a menu even though she knew he didn't need it. "Coming right up."​

She turned to the coffee machine, her hands shaking slightly. Why was he affecting her like this? She was a grown woman, not a schoolgirl with a crush. She should be focusing on her work, on getting through the day, not mooning over a man who was clearly out of her league.​

And yet, when she turned back with his coffee, she found herself lingering, reluctant to walk away.​

"Did you sleep well?" she asked, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.​

Damien raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Not particularly. I had a lot on my mind."​

Elara nodded, not sure what to say next. The silence stretched between them, thick with something she couldn't quite name.

​"Did you?" he asked, breaking the silence. "Sleep well, I mean."​

She shook her head, surprised by her own honesty. "No. I... I haven't been sleeping much lately."

​He nodded, as if this didn't surprise him. "The past few weeks have been difficult for you, haven't they?"​

Elara's eyes widened. "How did you—"​

"I make it my business to know things," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. "And I noticed the ring on your finger. The tan line suggests you've been wearing it for quite some time. But it's gone now."​

Elara looked down at her hand, where the faint outline of her wedding ring was still visible against her pale skin. She hadn't even realized he'd noticed.​

"He left," she said, the words coming out in a rush, as if they'd been waiting to escape. "Three weeks ago. Just... left. No explanation, nothing."​

Damien's expression softened. "I'm sorry."​

"Me too," Elara said, blinking back tears. "I just... I don't understand. What did I do wrong?"

​"Nothing," Damien said, his voice firm. "Some people are just too weak to appreciate what they have. It says more about him than it does about you."

​Elara smiled, a real smile this time. "Thank you. No one's... no one's said that to me before."​"Well, they should have," he said. "You deserve better, Elara."​

The use of her first name sent a shiver down her spine. It felt intimate, forbidden, and yet she found herself craving more of it.​

Before she could say anything else, Mabel called out from the kitchen, "Order up for Mr. Blackwood!"​

Elara nodded, reluctantly turning away. "Your food's ready."

​She brought his plate out, setting it down in front of him. The meatloaf smelled good—savory and comforting, like something her grandmother used to make. For a moment, she was transported back to her childhood, to a time when things were simpler, safer.

​"Thank you," Damien said, picking up his fork. "You know, you shouldn't be working here."​Elara raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"​

"This place," he said, gesturing around them. "It's beneath you."​

"I need the money," she said, defensively. "It's not like I have a lot of options right now."​

"There are always options," Damien said, cutting into his meatloaf. "You just have to be willing to see them."​

Elara crossed her arms, feeling a surge of irritation. "Easy for you to say. You're a rich man. You don't know what it's like to struggle, to have to choose between paying the rent and buying groceries."

​He looked up at her, his gray eyes serious. "You're right. I don't know what it's like to be in your exact situation. But I do know what it's like to have to fight for what you want. To have people underestimate you because of where you come from or what you do."

​Elara was taken aback. "Where did you come from?"​

"Not far from here, actually," he said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "My father was a mechanic. My mother worked as a maid. We didn't have much, but they taught me that anything is possible if you're willing to work for it."

​Elara found herself reconsidering him. There was more to Damien Blackwood than she'd initially thought. He wasn't just some spoiled rich kid—he'd worked for what he had.​"I'm sorry," she said, her voice softening. "I shouldn't have assumed."

​"It's okay," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I get it. People see the suit, the money, and they think they know everything about me."​

They fell into a comfortable silence, Damien eating his meal while Elara busied herself with cleaning the counter. Every so often, she'd glance up, catching him watching her, and her heart would race.​When he finished eating, he placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. "Keep the change."

​Elara's eyes widened. "This is way too much."

​"Think of it as a tip," he said, standing up. "For the excellent service."​

She shook her head, reaching for her wallet to make change. "I can't accept this."

​He placed a hand on hers, stopping her. "Please.

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