The apartment above Haven Gallery smelled like Leo's favorite mac and cheese and the lavender candles Elara burned when she needed to think.
She needed to think.
Leo was in his room, building something elaborate with blocks and humming the Tetris theme off-key. Normal. Safe. The sounds of a childhood she'd fought to give him.
Elara stood at the kitchen sink, hands submerged in soapy water, staring out the window at nothing.
Did you not have toys when you were little?
No. I didn't.
That look on Liam's face. That crack in his armor. She'd spent five years building walls against him, and Leo had demolished them with one innocent question.
"You're thinking about him."
Elara startled. Xander stood in the doorway, two grocery bags in his arms, his key to her apartment dangling from his finger. She'd given him that key three years ago, after he'd driven her to the ER when Leo had pneumonia. After he'd stayed up all night in the waiting room, refusing to leave.
Xander. Reliable. Present. Safe.
Everything Liam wasn't.
"I'm thinking about the visit," she corrected, pulling her hands from the water.
"Same thing." He set the groceries on the counter and began unpacking—milk, bread, the expensive coffee she liked, the fruit pouches Leo inhaled. He knew her routines better than she did. "How bad was it?"
"Spectacular failure. He brought a robotics kit for a five-year-old."
Xander's laugh was soft. "Of course he did."
"Leo was polite about it. Asked if he could play on the swings instead."
"And Liam?"
Elara dried her hands on a towel, the movements mechanical. "He sat on a bench in a three-thousand-dollar suit and watched. For two hours."
"Sounds painful."
"It was."
Xander moved closer, his hand finding the small of her back. Familiar. Comforting. "So why do you look like someone died?"
She met his eyes. Hazel, warm, completely without guile. "Leo asked him if he had toys growing up."
"What did he say?"
"No."
Understanding flickered across Xander's face. He'd been there through the worst of it—the late-night panic attacks, the nightmares, the days when Elara couldn't get out of bed because the weight of what Liam had done pressed her into the mattress. Xander had been the one to hold her together.
"El," he said quietly. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't let one moment of vulnerability make you forget five years of cruelty."
She pulled away, busying herself with putting away groceries. "I'm not forgetting anything."
"You're softening."
"I'm being realistic. He's Leo's father. He's trying—"
"Trying isn't enough." Xander's voice remained calm, but there was steel underneath. "You know what he's capable of. The things he said. The way he made you feel like you were nothing."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, one sad story about his childhood and you're already making excuses for him."
Elara slammed the refrigerator door harder than necessary. "I'm not making excuses. I'm acknowledging that maybe—maybe—there's more to him than I thought."
"There isn't. Men like Liam Vance don't change. They just get better at manipulation."
The words stung because part of her believed them. Part of her would always believe them.
But another part—a small, dangerous part—remembered the raw pain on his face. The way his voice had cracked. The fact that he'd sat through two hours of excruciating awkwardness because the contract demanded it.
"He enrolled in parenting classes," she said.
Xander went still. "How do you know?"
"His assistant sent me the certificate. Proof of enrollment. The contract requires it."
"So he's following a contract. That doesn't mean he's changed."
"It means he's trying."
"It means he wants something." Xander moved in front of her, forcing her to meet his gaze. "And when men like him want something, they take it. Don't confuse compliance with transformation."
Elara wanted to argue. Wanted to defend Liam, which was insane because she didn't owe him anything.
Instead, she said: "I'm being careful."
"Are you?"
Before she could answer, Leo appeared in the doorway, clutching a drawing. "Uncle Xan! Look what I made!"
Xander's expression shifted immediately—from concerned to delighted. He crouched to Leo's level. "Let me see, buddy."
Leo presented the drawing with pride: stick figures in a park. One small, one tall with dark scribbles for hair, one with blonde hair.
"That's me," Leo pointed. "And that's Liam. And that's you."
All three of them. In Leo's world, they all fit.
Xander's smile didn't falter, but Elara saw the tightness around his eyes. "It's perfect. Should we put it on the fridge?"
"Yeah!"
Leo ran to find a magnet, leaving the adults alone.
"He drew all three of us," Xander said quietly.
"He's five. He doesn't understand—"
"That his mom's ex-husband is trying to take his place? No, he doesn't." Xander stood. "But I do."
"Xander—"
"I'm not going anywhere, El. But you need to decide what you want. Because this?" He gestured vaguely. "This can't last forever."
He was right. She knew he was right.
But before she could respond, her phone buzzed.
A notification from the gallery's donation portal. Large contribution—flagged for her immediate attention.
She opened it. Stared.
"What?" Xander asked.
"Someone just donated fifty thousand dollars to the children's art charity."
"That's incredible. Who?"
Elara scrolled through the details. Anonymous. No name. No message. Just a wire transfer from an untraceable corporate account.
But she knew.
She didn't know how she knew, but she did.
"El? Who donated?"
"No one," she said, closing her phone. "Just a generous patron."
Xander looked skeptical but didn't push.
Leo returned with a magnet, and the moment passed. They ate dinner—Xander staying because he always stayed—and put Leo to bed together, the three of them reading a story about dinosaurs.
Domestic. Safe. Normal.
Everything Liam would never be.
The doorbell rang at 8:47 PM.
Xander had left an hour ago, reluctantly, with a promise to check the gallery's security system in the morning. Elara was in pajamas, halfway through a glass of wine, trying not to think about anonymous donations or robotics kits or the way Liam's voice had broken.
She opened the door.
No one there.
Just a delivery box on the doormat. Small. Elegant. Wrapped in cream-colored paper.
Her heart kicked against her ribs.
She picked it up, carried it inside, set it on the kitchen counter like it might detonate. The paper was expensive—the kind that cost more than the gift inside. Tied with a silk ribbon the color of champagne.
She should throw it away. Should refuse whatever this was.
She opened it.
Inside: a single white lily in a crystal vase. Flawless. Pristine. Exactly like the flower Liam had given her on their first date seven years ago.
She'd been twenty-one. He'd been thirty. She'd been a struggling art student working three jobs. He'd been building an empire. He'd walked into the coffee shop where she worked, ordered black coffee, and looked at her like she was the only person in the room.
Two weeks later, he'd picked her up for their first real date. Handed her a white lily.
"They mean purity," he'd said. "New beginnings."
She'd kept that flower until it died. Pressed it in a book she'd later burned the night she fled.
Now, seven years later, here was another.
Her hands shook as she pulled out the card.
Heavy cardstock. Embossed edges. His handwriting—she recognized it immediately, sharp and precise.
A token for a token. The first of many.
The words didn't make sense. Then they did.
Token. Leo had called the robotics kit a token. A gesture.
Liam was returning the gesture.
With a memory. With something that meant something.
This wasn't a bribe. This wasn't manipulation.
This was a message: I remember. I remember us. I remember what we were before I destroyed it.
Elara stared at the lily.
She should throw it away. Should text him to never contact her outside of scheduled visits. Should reinforce every boundary she'd built.
Instead, she placed the vase on the kitchen counter.
Where she could see it.
Where it could haunt her with what they'd been and what they'd lost.
Across town, Liam sat in his penthouse, staring at his phone.
Delivery confirmed. 8:47 PM.
She'd received it by now. Seen the lily. Read the card.
Would she understand? Would she remember?
Or would she throw it away like she'd thrown away their marriage?
His therapist's voice echoed in his head: "You can't buy forgiveness, Mr. Vance. You have to earn it."
He wasn't trying to buy it.
He was trying to remind her.
That once, a long time ago, before he'd ruined everything, they'd had something real.
And maybe—maybe—they could find it again.
His phone stayed silent.
No text. No call. No acknowledgment.
He didn't know if that was good or bad.
But tomorrow was Monday. And Monday meant the parenting class he'd enrolled in. The first step in proving he could change.
The first of many.
In her apartment, Elara stood at the counter, staring at the white lily.
A token for a token.
The first of many.
She picked up her phone. Typed a message to Liam.
Deleted it.
Typed another.
Deleted that too.
Finally, she set the phone down.
The lily sat on her counter, perfect and poisonous.
A reminder of who they'd been.
A promise of what he was trying to become.
And Elara had no idea which terrified her more.