POV - Elena
The alarm went off at 6:30 sharp.
I stared at the ceiling for a long moment before moving. The room felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath — waiting for me to admit what I already knew.
I'd dreamt of James again. Of his voice. Of the mark on my skin that still tingled whenever I thought of him.
But then I remembered her.
The things Victoria had said.
The perfect, poised smile she wore while pulling the floor from under me.
I pushed the thought away, got up, and forced myself into motion.
Shower. Coffee. Lip balm. Confidence — the kind you can fake if you put enough buttons and fabric between you and the truth.
I dressed with care: a cream silk blouse, slightly sheer but elegant, tucked into a high-waisted black pencil skirt.
A camel blazer, my hair in a sleek low bun, and nude heels that clicked with purpose.
Gold studs in my ears, a thin chain around my neck. Nothing too much, nothing careless.
At least on the outside, I was fine.
By 8:30, I was at Ashford Industries, the lobby alive with Monday morning energy — voices, footsteps, the scent of roasted coffee and ambition.
I clutched my tablet, nodded to the receptionist, and walked toward the elevators.
"Morning, Ms. Dorne," said one of the junior analysts as I passed.
"Morning," I replied smoothly. "How was your vacation?"
He smiled. "Too short."
"Always is."
The elevator doors closed, and my reflection stared back — poised, polished, unreadable.
Exactly as I needed to be.
When I reached my floor, Claire was already at my desk, holding two takeaway cups and a knowing grin.
"I brought caffeine and emotional support," she said, placing one in front of me. "One for the boss, one for the secretly falling apart best friend."
I gave her a look. "How did you know?"
"Because you didn't text me all weekend. Which for you means either world domination or heartbreak. And since the world's still spinning…"
"Claire."
"Okay, okay." She sat on the edge of my desk. "So, was dinner with Victoria as painful as it looked from across the room?"
I sighed, sinking into my chair. "Worse."
She winced. "Do I need to fight someone?"
"She's… beautiful, confident, perfectly polite. The kind of woman who doesn't need to raise her voice to make you feel small."
"Classic power move."
"She told me things. About her and James. About their past."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "Oh."
"Yes, oh."
There was a pause. She reached out, squeezed my hand. "Elena, you know better than to take everything a woman like that says at face value. Especially when she knows you love him."
"I know," I said softly. "But it's hard to unhear things like 'we spent years together' or 'he used to fall asleep in my arms.'"
Claire frowned. "God. She actually said that?"
I nodded. "Every word like she was painting a picture. And I just stood there, listening."
"That's not a picture. That's a weapon."
I smiled faintly, grateful for her bluntness.
"She's wrong, you know," Claire added, standing. "Whatever he had before, it's not this. I've seen how he looks at you. Half this building has. You could light the Thames with the energy between you two."
"Claire—"
"Stop doubting what's right in front of you. Let him prove it if he has to."
Before I could respond, the intercom buzzed.
"Ms. Dorne?" The voice of Lydia, James's assistant. "Mr. Ashford would like to see you in his office when you have a moment."
My stomach tightened. "Of course. On my way."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "Well. Speak of the devil and all that."
I stood, smoothing my skirt. "Wish me luck."
"Always. And remember — shoulders back, chin up. You're the one he's chasing."
The elevator ride to the executive floor felt longer than usual.
When the doors opened, the hush of the upper offices hit me — all glass, steel, and soft carpet.
James's office door was half-open.
He was standing by the window when I entered, jacket off, white shirt rolled at the sleeves, tie loose. He looked tired — but still devastatingly composed.
"Elena," he said, turning toward me. His voice softened. "Thanks for coming up."
"Of course," I said, closing the door behind me.
He studied me for a moment — the kind of look that saw too much.
"You've been distant," he said simply.
"I've been busy."
"Busy I can handle," he said quietly. "But this… feels like you're running."
I swallowed hard. "I just needed space."
He nodded slowly, but his eyes didn't waver. "If I've done something wrong—"
"You haven't."
He hesitated. "Is this about Victoria?"
The name hit like a slap.
"She came to see me," I said before I could stop myself.
His jaw tightened. "She what?"
"She came to my office. Said she wanted to be honest. That you and she were… close."
He exhaled, frustrated, raking a hand through his hair. "Of course she did."
"I didn't ask for details, James, but she gave them anyway."
"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "For whatever she said, for however it made you feel. But whatever there was between us — it's over. Years over. It was never what we have now."
"I know," I said softly. "But hearing it… it hurt."
He crossed the room slowly, stopping just a step away. "Elena, look at me."
I did.
"Whatever she told you, it belongs to another life. You are my life now. You and only you. Do you understand that?"
The sincerity in his voice hit like warmth and pain all at once.
I nodded. "I want to believe that."
He reached out, brushed his thumb along my jaw — a touch so careful it felt like an apology. "Then let me help you remember how to."
My breath caught, and for a moment, the office felt too small for both of us.
Then, aware of where we were, I stepped back. "I should get back to work."
He didn't stop me. Just nodded once, eyes full of words he wasn't saying.
As I turned to leave, he said quietly, "Elena — dinner tonight. My place. No pasts. Just us."
I hesitated at the door.
And despite everything, despite the ache still twisting inside me, I smiled faintly.
"We'll see."
Back on my floor, Claire was waiting like a cat in sunlight.
"Well?" she asked, standing the moment she saw me.
"He apologized. Said it's over. Said I'm his life now."
"And do you believe him?"
I thought about his eyes. The weight of his voice. The way my name sounded when he said it.
"Yes," I said finally. "I think I do."
Claire grinned, handing me another coffee. "Then, darling, you'd better start believing you're worth the fight he's giving."
By the end of the day, the office lights dimmed, and I gathered my things.
Outside, the city glowed against the evening sky.
And as I stepped out into the cool air, a car was waiting by the curb — sleek, familiar, and undeniably his.
James stood beside it, hands in his pockets, eyes soft when they found me.
"Still unsure about dinner?" he asked.
I smiled, heart pounding. "Maybe just a little."
"Then let me convince you," he said, opening the door with that quiet, irresistible charm.
And for the first time since everything had fallen apart, I let myself want to be convinced.
…
The hum of the city faded as we drove north, the lights of London flickering past in quiet rhythm — like the heartbeat of something ancient and steady.
Neither of us spoke at first.
James's hand rested loosely on the wheel, his other arm propped against the window.
Every so often, he glanced my way — not enough to demand an answer, just enough to remind me he was there.
The silence between us wasn't cold. It was heavy. Full of words we hadn't learned to say yet.
Outside, the night deepened — wet streets, amber lamps, the distant sound of rain brushing against glass.
Inside the car, warmth. The faint scent of cedar from his skin, the low hum of the engine, the kind of quiet that presses close.
I traced the seam of my skirt with my fingertips, pretending I wasn't aware of every inch of him beside me.
Pretending my pulse wasn't stuttering every time his hand shifted on the gear.
Finally, he spoke. His voice low, careful.
"You didn't have to say yes."
"I know."
"But you did."
"I wanted to."
That earned me a small smile, the kind that lived more in his eyes than on his mouth. "You have no idea how much I needed to hear that."
I smiled faintly, still watching the road ahead. "You always say the right thing, James."
He shook his head. "No. I say what I mean. There's a difference."
The quiet returned, softer this time.
I felt him exhale — slow, steady — like he was trying to release something he'd been holding all day.
His hand brushed mine on the console.
Accidental.
Or maybe not.
The touch was small, nothing more than a shared line of warmth — but it sent a shiver through me.
I turned my head, and for a heartbeat, our eyes met.
It was enough.
No grand declarations, no apologies, just two people remembering what it felt like to breathe in sync.
When he finally pulled into the drive of his home — that beautiful, sprawling house on the edge of the city, all soft light and stone — the rain had stopped.
He cut the engine and turned to me.
"I don't want to talk about her tonight," he said quietly. "Or about anything that hurts."
I nodded. "Then we won't."
"Good," he murmured, a hint of relief in his voice. "Because all I want tonight is us. Just… peace."
I smiled then — small, tired, genuine.
"Then let's start there."
He opened my door, offered me his hand.
When I took it, the warmth of his skin felt like a promise.
And for the first time in days, I let myself believe that maybe — just maybe — peace was possible.