The first thing I felt was the ache — a dull, throbbing reminder that I was still, inconveniently, alive.
The second thing was unfamiliar softness beneath me. Sheets that weren't mine. I moved my legs slightly, listening to the faint rustle of the sheets. A room that didn't smell like home.
I forced my eyes open, my eyes slowly focusing. The ceiling above me was smooth concrete, interrupted by long lines of recessed light. Sleek furniture. Cold tones of steel and charcoal. A faint scent of cedar and sandalwood.
Where am I? Definitely not the Sterling mansion.
Just then, fragments of memories from the night before came flooding back to me. Liam, the terrace, the Onyx club, the whiskey, Kaelen... Kaelen was there? I sat up instantly at the thought of Kaelen, not realising that I shot up too fast. The world tilted and nausea slammed into me. My head pounded like a drumline inside my skull. "Ugh..." I pressed my palms against my temples, going through the fragments again. Liam, the Sterling mansion terrace, the Onyx club, the whiskey, Kaelen, the kiss—
I froze.
Kaelen.
I looked down. I was still wearing the same dress from last night, though someone had taken off my shoes and draped a blanket over me. My heart gave a sharp, confused twist.
Before I could decide whether to bolt or scream, the door opened.
Kaelen stepped in, immaculate as always. Crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled, tie loose around his throat as if he'd been up for hours already. He carried a glass of water and two white pills in one hand.
"Good. You're awake." His tone was calm, almost detached, but his eyes flicked briefly to my face—as if to check on me. "How are you feeling?"
He handed me the glass. "Painkillers. For the hangover and the crying."
The words hit harder than the headache.
I took them without protest, swallowing hard, trying not to meet his eyes. "Where… am I?"
"My place." He moved to the massive window that overlooked the city. Morning sunlight spilled across him, catching on the silver of his watch. "You passed out. Bringing you back to the Sterlings' in that state would've raised questions you're not ready to answer."
"I see," I murmured, wrapping the blanket tighter around me. "Thank you."
He turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "You should eat something. Flora will bring you breakfast."
I should've left it at that. But the silence between us was too loud—saturated with last night's ghosts. The kiss. The breakdown. The words I never meant to say.
"Last night was…" I hesitated, searching for dignity among the wreckage. "A mistake. The whiskey—I wasn't myself."
He faced me fully then, eyes sharp. "Don't."
The single word was quiet but firm.
"The girl from the lake didn't lie to me," he said, voice low, measured. "Don't start now. You're in pain, Elara. A pain that has nothing to do with whiskey, and everything to do with Liam. I don't understand it. But I see it."
My throat tightened. "You don't know what you see."
His gaze didn't waver. "Maybe not. But I remember the girl who stayed with a dying boy just because she couldn't stand to leave him alone. You weren't heartless then, and you aren't now. Stop trying so hard to pretend otherwise."
Something fragile trembled in my chest. I wanted to argue, to throw up walls, but I couldn't. So I just nodded.
He studied me one last time, then turned toward the door. "Flora will take care of you. Don't think too hard."
And then he was gone.
The apartment was quiet after he left, its silence almost luxurious.
I forced myself to stand, ignoring the dizziness, and wandered through the space. Everything was precise—black marble, brushed steel, neat stacks of files. Not a single unnecessary object, nothing personal as well. It was the kind of space that reflected its owner: controlled, calculated, and distant.
A soft knock came at the door before an older woman entered, carrying a tray. "Good morning, Miss. I'm Flora. Mr. Vancourt said you might wake hungry."
Her smile was gentle, the kind that carried decades of patience. On the tray sat toast, scrambled eggs, and a pot of tea. Simple. Comforting.
I murmured a thanks and sat by the small table. She busied herself arranging the meal, then paused and looked at me, a genuine smile on her face.
"This is the first time Master's ever brought a lady home," she said conversationally, almost to herself. "Usually, no one gets past the front door."
My fork stilled. "Really?"
"Oh yes." Her eyes twinkled, the way only someone old enough to have stopped fearing consequences could. "He's a private man. Had a difficult childhood, poor boy. Parents died when he was young, and the world was… unkind. Business rivals, politics, all of it. He grew up fast. He had to. But I guess, that probably made him a distant man. Very quiet."
Her words echoed what he'd told me last night—about the lake, the hunt, the blood.
I sipped my tea to hide the blush rising in my cheeks. The memory of that kiss flared unbidden, sharp and humiliating. I still wasn't sure what it meant—if it meant anything at all. But the thought that he'd never brought anyone else here… unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
Before I could spiral further, my phone buzzed.
Five missed calls — Sienna.
I sighed, pressing redial.
"Elara! Where have you been?" Her voice was sharp with worry. "I called all night. Are you okay?"
I swallowed the urge to tell her everything. "I'm fine, Sienna. I wasn't feeling well after the event, so I stayed somewhere quiet."
"Quiet?" she repeated suspiciously. "That better not mean trouble."
"Just to rest," I said quickly. "I have to go. I'll have to get to the office soon."
When I hung up, I caught my reflection in the black glass of the window—hair tangled, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but alive. For the first time in days, the weight pressing against my chest felt just a little lighter.
By the time I arrived at Sterling Group, the mask was back on.
The boardroom gleamed under harsh light, the kind designed to make men feel important. David was already there, along with Kaelen, his posture sharp and commanding in that unnervingly effortless way.
The meeting itself was a blur of numbers, proposals, and power plays. Kaelen spoke with quiet authority, and even my father listened. I forced myself to match their composure, though every time Kaelen's gaze brushed mine, I felt the phantom echo of his lips.
When the meeting ended, Kaelen excused himself, leaving behind that faint scent of sandalwood and command.
David lingered. He turned to my father with an overly casual smile. "Charles, about the engagement between Elara and Liam… we should set a date soon, don't you think?"
The words sliced through the air like glass.
My father hesitated, polite but guarded. "There's no rush, David. The children will decide when the time is right."
I caught the brief flicker of irritation in David's eyes before he masked it with a laugh.
Something cold twisted in my gut. Why were they pushing so hard?
I smiled, polite and brittle, and gathered my papers. But as I walked out, I could feel the truth circling just beneath the surface — something was moving behind the scenes.
I was too infatuated with Liam in my past life to see anything. But now, it seems like the Vances wanted the marriage more than me. Why? What do they want? Is Kaelen in it?