The flight back from Copenhagen mirrored the flight out, only it felt colder. The breaking news report had acted like a circuit breaker, cutting the flow of dark, forbidden energy between Julian and Elara. The intimate tension disappeared, replaced by a clear, unbridgeable distance.
Julian immediately turned off the television, his expression blank and severe. He never brought up Alistair Chen or the word suicide. Instead, he retreated behind his laptop, frantically reviewing documents, barking orders into his phone—all under the guise of a supposedly urgent textile acquisition. Elara observed him, noticing the slight tremor in his hands, the sheen of sweat on his brow, and the relentless efficiency with which he directed the global financial machine. He wasn't just wealthy; he was dangerous. He was the architect of ruin.
His claim that he was protecting her and the Thorne Gallery from Seraphina's debt now sounded like a calculated lie. The Elara Foundation was not a safeguard; it was a distraction, a trap to paralyze her conscience.
After landing, Elara made sure their separation was complete. "I need the next few days to focus on gallery proposals," she told him, her tone professional and thin. "And Seraphina's calendar is fully booked with bridal events. I need to be there for my sister."
Julian searched her eyes, finding only cold resolve. He tried to reclaim their intimacy with a brush of his hand against her arm, a gesture meant to convey warmth. She pulled away smoothly, showing no reaction.
"Of course, Elara," he said quietly, his voice heavy with what might have been regret or simply annoyance at losing control. "But remember, the clock is ticking. You understand that now. Don't let your artistic detachment blind you to the larger picture."
His use of the chilling word was a final, desperate attempt to tie her to his scheme. It didn't work.
In the days that followed, Elara immersed herself in Seraphina's world, not out of sisterly affection but as a spy. She watched her sister closely, looking for proof of the massive, hidden debt Julian had mentioned. Seraphina was frantic, yes, but not as someone facing bankruptcy. She was irritable, constantly checking her phone, and displaying a strange mix of excitement and panic.
The family's pre-wedding celebrations peaked at a lavish cocktail party in the downtown penthouse Julian owned. It was an event to introduce the bride to Vance's high-finance circle.
Elara arrived late, dressed conservatively, and determined to remain unnoticed. She tracked Julian, who embodied the attentive groom, holding Seraphina's hand and introducing her with effortless charm. But her main focus was her sister.
Seraphina consumed too much champagne and laughed too loudly. Every few minutes, she checked the time on the delicate diamond watch Julian had given her. Her eyes continually scanned the room, not for guests, but for something—or someone—else.
Around eleven o'clock, Elara caught the signal. Seraphina excused herself to the restroom, but instead of heading toward the elevators or the main exit, she slipped through a seldom-used service door at the back of the penthouse kitchen.
Elara waited thirty seconds, then followed.
The service hallway was narrow, industrial, and brightly lit. Seraphina was not there. Elara pushed through a final, unmarked metal door and found herself on a secluded balcony overlooking the city's shimmering expanse.
Seraphina stood there, and she wasn't alone.
The man with her was handsome in a raw, vital way that sharply contrasted with Julian's polished demeanor. He wore a sharp, unfamiliar suit, and his dark hair was slightly tousled. He gripped Seraphina's arms, his face pale and tense. He was clearly nervous, and his agitation seemed real.
"You shouldn't have come here, Leo," Seraphina hissed, keeping her voice low but frantic. "Julian's team is everywhere. If he sees you—"
"I don't care about Julian!" Leo interrupted, desperation clear in his voice. "The Ticking has sped up, Seraphina! We have to move tonight. I can't hold them off anymore. If we don't get the papers, we lose everything!"
Elara froze in the shadows of the doorway, her muscles tense. The word "ticking"—the same word Julian had received in the car—was the central fear in Seraphina's world, too.
"I told you, the original papers are locked in the safe at the estate," Seraphina argued, pulling away from him. "I can't get the safe combination until the final rehearsal tomorrow. We stick to the plan! We need the documents for the transfer. It's the only way to get the asset out before Julian finalizes the acquisition."
Leo ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "The acquisition? Seraphina, he's not acquiring it, he's stealing it! He's going to strip it bare and pin the blame on us. The whole wedding is a sham to clear his name and shift the Chen scandal onto someone else!"
Elara's breath caught. Alistair Chen. The man who had committed suicide. This man, Leo, knew about Julian's dark history, and the stakes were much higher than just a prenuptial agreement.
Seraphina grabbed Leo's hand, her composure dangerously close to snapping. "I know! But we have to play his game for one more day! The transfer documents give us control, not Julian. We sign them, and then we run. But if you panic now, Leo, if you try to stop the wedding—"
"I don't want your money, Seraphina. I want you," Leo pleaded, pulling her into a desperate embrace. "Run with me now, before tomorrow. We can disappear. We can start over."
Seraphina gently pushed him away, her eyes glinting with cold, almost predatory resolve. "Don't be sentimental. We need the money and the control. This is the only way out, and it only works if Julian believes I'm walking down that aisle. Tomorrow, at the rehearsal dinner, I get the combination. The day after, we take the asset, and then we leave Julian Vance at the altar to face the inevitable crash."
Elara's mind whirled. Seraphina was not a damsel in distress; she was actively plotting Julian's betrayal. She wasn't drowning in debt; she was attempting a major heist just before the wedding.
But there was a terrifying flaw in Seraphina's plan, a critical detail that her sister—and Leo—didn't know.
The prenup Elara had seen in Copenhagen stated that the asset—the Thorne Gallery proxy—was being transferred, not to Julian, but to the Elara Foundation. If Seraphina signed those final documents, she wouldn't be stealing control; she would be unwittingly handing over the key piece of the family legacy directly into Julian's hands, right under Elara's name.
The real danger was not Julian's original plan; Seraphina attempted to sabotage that plan. Elara suddenly understood the fragile nature of the ticking timeline. If Seraphina deviated, the entire legal structure would fall apart, potentially exposing them all.
Elara took one last, silent step back into the shadows of the doorway, her heart racing with a sickening realization: she had to choose. Should she warn Julian, the predator who might be a killer, to save her sister? Or should she warn her sister, the thief, that she was about to hand their family's legacy over to the man they both feared?
Before she could act, Leo reached out and grabbed Seraphina's wrist, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I have the escape route set. But tomorrow night, if you see the signal—the white rose—it means he knows everything. And you run, Seraphina. You run, and you don't look back."
With that, Leo slipped back through the service door, leaving Seraphina alone on the balcony, her face lit by the cold reflection of the city lights, the queen of her own desperate, ticking disaster.