Elena Rivers
I didn't expect to see him again.
Not this soon. Not like this.
It was the middle of the afternoon, sun too bright, the world too normal. I was just leaving the firm—heels clicking, mind elsewhere, trying to forget the way the night before had made my skin itch.
Then his voice cut through the noise.
"Elena."
I froze before I turned. I hated that he still had that power.
Damien Vale stood at the edge of the street like he didn't belong to it. Crisp suit. Impossibly calm. And eyes that saw too much.
"I didn't know we were speaking again," I said, arms crossing before I could stop them.
He smiled slightly. Not warm. Calculated. "We never stopped."
"I stopped." I moved to walk past him.
He didn't move. "You've been avoiding me."
I gave him a flat look. "And yet here you are."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The city hummed around us, uncaring. And still, I felt only him.
"I saw you at the bookstore," he said quietly.
My breath caught. "You were there?"
"I wanted to see you happy." His voice was low. Honest in a way that made my chest tighten.
I hated that I didn't know what to say.
"I don't need you watching me," I whispered.
"No," he said. "But I need to."
Something in his face shifted—just for a second. There was something raw beneath the surface. Not anger. Not obsession. Loneliness. Hunger.
"I don't trust you," I said.
"I don't want your trust, Elena." He stepped closer. "I want your truth."
And maybe that was the problem.
Because my truth wasn't cold or distant.
It was trembling.
It was curious.
It was afraid of how much I wanted him to stay.
So I said nothing.
He didn't press.
He just looked at me like he was memorizing the way I breathed.
Then, quietly: "You look tired."
"I am tired."
Of running. Of pretending. Of being seen only when it was inconvenient.
He nodded once. "Then let me carry it."
I almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, I turned away. "Go home, Damien."
But as I walked, I could feel him behind me. Not his footsteps. His presence.
And I hated how I didn't hate it.