"You don't have to do this."
Xander's voice was quiet, measured, as he held open the door to Marcella's Boutique—the kind of upscale shop where dresses didn't have price tags because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford them.
Elara stepped inside, the bell chiming softly. "I know."
"Then why are you?"
She didn't have a good answer. Or rather, she had too many answers, none of them honest enough to say aloud.
Because I want to prove I'm not afraid of him.
Because I want to show him I've moved on.
Because some stupid, reckless part of me wants to see his face when I walk into that gala.
Instead, she said: "Because it's good for Leo. Seeing philanthropy. Understanding his father's world."
Xander studied her face, reading all the things she wasn't saying. He was good at that—too good.
"Right. For Leo."
A saleswoman approached, all sleek elegance and practiced smile. "Good afternoon. How can I help you today?"
"We need a gown," Xander said, his hand finding the small of Elara's back. Possessive. Protective. "For a charity gala. Something elegant. Something that makes her look like the queen she is."
The saleswoman's smile widened. "I have just the thing."
Twenty minutes later, Elara stood in a dressing room surrounded by options.
Xander had good taste—she'd give him that. Each dress he'd selected was beautiful. Classy. The kind of thing you'd wear to meet someone's parents or attend a sophisticated gallery opening.
Elara held up a champagne-colored silk gown. High neck. Elegant drape. Utterly appropriate.
She hated it.
Not because it wasn't beautiful. It was. But it was safe. It was the kind of dress that said I've moved on and I'm fine and I don't care what you think.
And the problem was, she did care what Liam thought.
She hated that she cared. But denying it wouldn't make it less true.
"El? You okay in there?" Xander's voice filtered through the dressing room door.
She slipped on the champagne gown, zipped it up, stepped out.
Xander's face did something complicated. Soft. Aching. Proud.
"You're beautiful."
She turned to the mirror. The dress was perfect. Sophisticated. Mature. The kind of thing a successful gallery owner would wear.
"What do you think?" the saleswoman asked.
"It's lovely," Elara said.
"But?" Xander's reflection met hers in the mirror.
"No buts. It's perfect."
"Elara."
She turned to face him. He stood there in his jeans and henley, hands in his pockets, looking at her like she was a painting he wanted to memorize.
"You hate it," he said.
"I don't—"
"You do. I can tell." He moved closer, not quite touching. "What's wrong with it?"
Everything. Nothing. It wasn't the dress. It was what the dress represented.
"It's too safe," she admitted quietly.
Xander's smile was sad. Understanding. "You want to make a statement."
"That's petty."
"That's human." He turned to the saleswoman. "Do you have anything more... dramatic?"
An hour later, they'd tried twelve dresses.
Elara stood in front of the mirror wearing a deep emerald gown with a plunging neckline and a slit that went to mid-thigh. It was stunning. Bold. Completely unlike anything she'd worn in five years.
It was also completely unlike her.
"That's the one," Xander said from behind her.
"It's too much."
"It's perfect."
"Xander—"
"El." He stepped closer, his reflection joining hers in the mirror. "You're trying to prove something to him. I get it. So prove it. Walk into that gala and show him exactly what he lost."
His words were supportive. His eyes were heartbroken.
"This is killing you," she said softly.
"Yes."
"Then why are you helping me?"
"Because I love you. And loving you means wanting you to be happy, even if it's not with me." He reached out, adjusted the dress's shoulder strap with gentle fingers. "Even if it means watching you walk back into the orbit of a man who destroyed you once already."
Elara turned to face him. "I'm not going back to him."
"Aren't you?"
"Xander—"
"You're standing in a dressing room trying on dresses to impress your ex-husband. You agreed to attend his gala. You're bringing your son into his world. El, I'm not blind."
"I'm bringing you. As my date."
"As your shield." His smile was gentle. Knowing. "I'm the safe choice you parade in front of him to prove you've moved on. But we both know the truth."
"What truth?"
"That you never stopped loving him."
The words hit like a physical blow.
"That's not—"
"It's okay." Xander's hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "I've known for a long time. Maybe I've always known. But I kept hoping that one day you'd look at me the way you look at him. That I'd be enough."
"You are enough—"
"I'm not. Not for you." He leaned down, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "But that doesn't mean I'm going anywhere. I promised to protect you and Leo. I meant it. Even from yourself."
Elara couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Xander was right. About all of it. And that made everything so much worse.
"Buy the dress," he said, stepping back. "Buy the green one. Make him regret every second of the five years he lost. And I'll be right there beside you, making sure he knows you're mine now. Even if we both know it's a lie."
He walked out of the dressing room before she could respond.
Leaving Elara alone with her reflection, wearing a dress designed to break hearts.
They bought the emerald dress.
Xander paid—insisted on it, despite Elara's protests. The saleswoman wrapped it in tissue paper, placed it in a distinctive white box with gold lettering.
They drove back to the gallery in silence. Not comfortable silence. The kind weighted with things neither of them knew how to say.
When they pulled up outside Haven, Xander turned to her.
"I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"But El? If you decide you want him back—if this gala is the beginning of you two finding your way to each other again—I need you to tell me. Don't let me find out by watching it happen."
"Nothing is going to happen."
He looked at her for a long moment. "I hope you're telling yourself the truth."
He drove away before she could respond.
Elara stood on the sidewalk, the dress box in her arms, feeling like the worst person alive.
The gallery was closed for the day. Elara climbed the stairs to her apartment, dress in hand, mind racing.
This was a mistake. All of it. The gala. The dress. Using Xander as a human shield against feelings she'd buried for five years.
She should cancel. Should text Liam right now and tell him she'd changed her mind.
Her phone buzzed. Text from Liam's assistant: Package delivered to gallery. Front desk.
Elara frowned. She wasn't expecting anything.
She went back downstairs. Found a large black box at the reception desk, tied with a silver ribbon. Her name on the card in elegant script.
She opened it.
Inside: A dress.
Not just any dress. A masterpiece.
Midnight blue silk that seemed to shift colors in the light—sapphire, navy, black. The neckline was a deep V, the back nonexistent. It would cling to every curve before flowing out in liquid waves. Daring. Breathtaking. Utterly inappropriate for someone trying to prove she'd moved on.
It was the kind of dress that said I belong to someone.
And Elara knew exactly who that someone thought he was.
She pulled out the card with shaking hands.
You'll need the right armor for battle. —L
No signature. No explanation. Just that.
She stared at the dress.
It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
It was also a claim. A brand. A public declaration of ownership.
She should be furious. Should send it back immediately with a scathing note about boundaries and presumption.
Instead, she lifted the dress from the box.
Held it against her body.
Looked in the mirror.
The woman staring back was not Elara Hart, struggling gallery owner and single mother. She was someone else. Someone powerful. Someone who walked into rooms and made them stop.
Someone who'd once been Elara Vance.
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
She answered without thinking. "Hello?"
"Did you get it?" Liam's voice. Not his assistant. Him.
"You can't send me dresses."
"I can send gifts. The contract doesn't prohibit gifts."
"This isn't a gift. It's a statement."
"Yes. It is."
The honesty disarmed her.
"I already have a dress," she said.
"I'm sure Reed bought you something lovely. Elegant. Safe."
The accuracy stung.
"But that dress," Liam continued, his voice low, intimate, dangerous, "that dress is for the woman you used to be. The woman who walked into my office wearing a coffee-stained apron and challenged my quarterly projections. The woman who wasn't afraid of anything."
"That woman doesn't exist anymore."
"Doesn't she?"
Elara looked at her reflection. At the midnight blue silk against her skin. At the woman staring back with fire in her eyes.
"You're trying to manipulate me."
"I'm trying to remind you."
"Of what?"
"That you were extraordinary before you met me. You were extraordinary with me. And you're still extraordinary now. But that dress Reed bought you? That's the dress of someone trying to prove she's over me. This dress?" A pause. "This dress is the truth."
"What truth?"
"That you're still fighting. Still fierce. Still the woman I couldn't stop thinking about for five years."
Her breath caught.
"Wear whichever dress you want," Liam said. "But know this: If you wear mine, I'll know. And so will everyone else in that room."
"Know what?"
"That you're mine. You've always been mine. And no matter how many years pass or how many Alexander Reeds stand between us, that will never change."
He hung up.
Elara stood in her gallery, holding two dresses.
One champagne, elegant, safe—chosen by a man who loved her gently.
One midnight blue, daring, dangerous—sent by a man who'd destroyed her once and was trying to claim her again.
She should choose Xander's dress. Should choose safety. Should choose the man who'd been there for five years over the man who'd betrayed her.
She hung both dresses in her closet.
Side by side.
Champagne and midnight blue.
Safety and chaos.
Xander and Liam.
She had one week to decide.
One week to figure out which woman she wanted to be.
The one who'd moved on.
Or the one who'd never truly left.
In his penthouse, Liam set down his phone.
She hadn't refused the dress. Hadn't sent it back.
That was something.
His assistant appeared in the doorway. "Sir? The Beijing merger—"
"Not now."
"But the board—"
"I said not now."
The assistant retreated. Smart woman.
Liam walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. His city. His empire. Everything he'd built after crawling out of foster care and homelessness and violence.
He'd sacrificed everything for this view. This power. This control.
Including Elara.
And for what? An empire that felt hollow without her in it. A life that looked perfect from the outside and felt like death from within.
He'd sent her the dress knowing exactly what he was doing. Knowing it was manipulation. Knowing it violated a dozen unspoken boundaries.
But he'd also sent it knowing something else: That the woman he'd married—the woman who'd challenged him and frustrated him and made him feel human—was still in there.
Buried under five years of survival and single motherhood and learned caution.
But still there.
And if she wore his dress to the gala?
If she walked into that ballroom wearing midnight blue silk and fire in her eyes?
Then he'd know.
She was still fighting.
And so was he.