The hum of the café was low and steady, like a heartbeat under glass. Outside, the world went on — laughter, engines, the city's cold pulse — but here, the air was still.
A single espresso sat cooling before me, its bitter scent cutting through the floral sweetness that had clung to me all week.
For the first time in days, I wasn't performing.Not the perfect Sterling heiress.Not the dutiful fiancée.Not the woman smiling while twisting the knife.
Just me — raw, hollow, human.
The bell above the door chimed softly. I didn't look up. I didn't have to. The air shifted — colder, sharper — before I even heard his footsteps.
Kaelen Vancourt slid into the seat opposite mine without a word, his movements too deliberate, too silent.
I stirred my coffee once. "Mr. Kaelen. You seem to have a lot of free time lately. First the atelier, now this. Shouldn't you be off somewhere… orchestrating empires?"
"I could ask you the same," he said quietly. His voice had none of its usual polish — just gravel and restraint. "Shouldn't you be picking out china patterns?"
That made me look up. Shadows clung to his face, the lines around his mouth carved in tension. He looked at me like one might look at a ruin — something once beautiful, now dangerous to touch.
"What do you want, Mr Kaelen?"
"The truth." He leaned forward, eyes like stormlight. "Why, Elara? After everything I told you. Why walk willingly into this gilded cage?"
I let out a short, humorless laugh. "You seem to be the only one in the family who doesn't want this marriage. Why is that? Does it ruin some grand strategy of yours?"
"It ruins you," he bit out. "I see the way you look at him. There's nothing there but frost. This isn't strategy — it's slow self-destruction."
"I know what I'm doing," I said, too fast, too sharp. It sounded like a defense I'd rehearsed one too many times.
He didn't back down. "Do you? Or are you so consumed by your hatred that you're willing to burn yourself just to see him flinch?"
The air between us turned thin, almost painful.
"You don't understand," I said softly, voice trembling despite me. "You don't know what betrayal costs. What it takes from you."
"Then make me understand." His tone lowered — quiet, dangerous, unyielding.
The ghost of the balcony railing pressed against my back. The memory of the fall, the impact, the cold betrayal—it rose up, choking me. The walls around me — brick by perfect brick — began to fracture. I froze, as the familiar pain fills my heart.
"What's wrong, Elara?"
My breath hitched. "The girl by the lake," I whispered, the words tearing from a place of old, festering wounds. "The girl you think I am, the one who brought you water... she believed in kindness. She believed in people."
The words scraped my throat raw.
"She's gone, Kaelen. Stop trying to find that girl through me."
He stilled.
"She died a long time ago," I said, my voice splintering. "She was naive. She was weak. And she paid for it."
Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them. They fell soundlessly, like the ripples on that same lake long ago.
"I'm not her anymore," I whispered. "And I never will be. I don't know why you are looking out for me the way you do. I am not that girl anymore. If you're looking for her, you can leave."
Kaelen didn't move. But something in his eyes shifted — a flicker of something dark and raw, the kind of emotion that shouldn't exist between strangers.
The café's soft jazz swelled, cruelly peaceful. Between us, the silence felt alive — heavy with ghosts, with what-ifs, with everything too dangerous to say aloud.
The air between us was taut — a live wire stretched too thin.
When Kaelen finally spoke, his voice was low, almost calm. "You tell yourself she's gone. Maybe that helps you sleep."
I froze.
His gaze didn't waver. "But ghosts have a way of clinging to those who pretend not to see them."
He stood before I could respond, slipping a few notes beneath his untouched coffee. The chair legs scraped softly against the tiled floor.
"You're not the only one haunted, Elara," he said, and then, quieter — "You just hide it better."
The bell above the door chimed as he left, the echo lingering like the scent of rain on stone.
And I sat there, staring into the cold coffee, wondering if what unnerved me most was that he might be right — or that he might care.
Shaking off the lingering vulnerability, I returned to the one place where I had absolute control: my office. The sleek, modern space was a sanctuary of order, a stark contrast to the emotional chaos Kaelen seemed to effortlessly provoke. I had just settled behind my desk, determined to bury myself in the cold logic of spreadsheets, when the door opened without a knock.
Liam stood there, holding a vast, extravagant bouquet of white lilies. Their waxy, pristine petals and heavy, funereal scent instantly filled the room.
"Elara," he said, his voice a practiced blend of charm and possession. "I saw these and thought of you. So elegant. So pure. They match your aura perfectly."
He placed the massive arrangement on the corner of my desk, the blooms so white they seemed to bleed into the air around them. As he leaned in, the cloying sweetness of the lilies was undercut by another, fainter scent. A familiar, sweet note of peach blossom perfume—the same overly fragrant brand Chloe drenched herself in.
My blood went cold, but my face remained a placid mask. I looked up at him, my expression one of mild curiosity.
"Thank you, Liam. They're… striking." I paused, tilting my head. "By the way, have you seen Chloe? I wanted to ask her about the floral arrangements for the engagement party. She seems to have such… strong opinions on flowers."
A flicker of panic, there and gone in an instant, flashed in his eyes. His smile tightened at the corners. "Chloe? No. Why would I have seen her? I came straight from a meeting."
The lie was so smooth, so effortless. "Of course," I murmured, turning my attention back to my screen as if dismissing him. "It was just a thought."
He lingered for a moment, unsure, before making an excuse about another meeting and leaving. The office felt heavier after he was gone, the scent of deceit clinging to the air alongside the lilies.
Not ten minutes later, my door opened again. Chloe stood there, her eyes immediately latching onto the bouquet. She gasped, a hand flying to her chest in a gesture of theatrical delight.
"Oh! White lilies!" she breathed, rushing forward to touch the petals. "They're my absolute favorite. I've always said there's no flower more beautiful." She looked at me, her eyes wide with a feigned innocence that couldn't hide her glee. "Who gave you these, sister? Was it Liam?"
The pieces clicked into place with a silence that was more deafening than any explosion.
The flowers he claimed were chosen for my aura.
The flowers I used to decorate my home, our home.
The flowers he made me pretended to like.
It was for Chloe. They were always for her.
I looked from Chloe's gloating face to the ostentatious white flowers, and a smile, cold and sharp as a shard of ice, touched my lips.
"Yes," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "He certainly has a type."