Novelas de via.offline.z

Morning arrives without ceremony.There is no dramatic intrusion of light, no cinematic awakening. Just the quiet insistence of day pressing against the windows, pale and persistent, reminding Elara that time does not negotiate. The night she claimed for herself has passed. The aftershocks remain.She wakes before her alarm.Her body feels alert in a way that is almost irritating, like it has already decided something her mind has not finished processing. She lies still, staring at the ceiling, cataloging sensation the way she always does when she needs control. The sheets are cool. Her breathing is steady. Her chest does not hurt, which feels like a small victory.The phone is still off.That matters.She turns onto her side and lets herself stay there a moment longer, not avoiding the day, just pacing it. Control is not about denial. It is about timing.Eventually, she gets up.The house looks different in daylight. Less theatrical. Less judgmental. The marble no longer echoes. The

The house does not sound the way it used to.Elara notices it the moment she steps inside. Her heels click against marble that once felt ceremonial, reverent, almost sacred. Now it is just stone. Cold. Echoing. Every sound travels too far, lingers too long, as if the walls themselves are listening for something she is no longer willing to give.The doors close behind her with a finality that makes her pause. She stands still, letting the echo of the latch roll across the high ceilings. For a moment, she does nothing. She does not exhale. She does not remove her coat. She simply stands in the center of the entryway and lets the silence press against her skin, heavy and deliberate, like a hand testing its grip.This house has always known how to wait. It waits in the cracks of the walls, in the hush of polished wood and marble, in the subtle hum of electricity behind the fixtures. It has always waited for her. And tonight, it seems to demand the kind of reckoning she has been postponing

Elara’s hand trembled so violently she nearly dropped the phone.Damian Locke’s voice slithered through the speaker, smooth and poisonous.“I can be at your hotel in fifteen minutes, Miss Monroe. Or we can do this the hard way. Your choice.”She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her body was still humming from Cassian’s touch, her lips swollen, her thighs aching in the most delicious way. And now this.“I… I need time,” she managed.“You don’t have time,” Damian said, almost kindly. “Cassian Vale is on his way to you right now. And when he discovers what that key actually opens, sweetheart, he will not be gentle. I, however, can still be reasonable. Fifteen minutes.”The line went dead.She stood frozen in the middle of the suite, wrapped only in Cassian’s discarded white dress shirt, the scent of him still clinging to the fabric. Her pulse roared in her ears. She had exactly two options: wait for Cassian and whatever storm he was bringing, or run.She chose the third.She threw

Elara did not sleep.She lay in the dark of her hotel room, rain tapping against the floor-to-ceiling windows like impatient fingers, replaying every second of that kiss until her lips felt bruised all over again. The taste of him lingered: aged scotch, cigar smoke, and something uniquely Cassian that she could not name but already craved. She touched her mouth, half expecting to find it swollen, marked. It was not. The mark was deeper than skin, carved somewhere behind her ribs where her heart refused to slow.She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her face into the pillow, and still felt the phantom pressure of his body pinning her to the balcony wall, the way his thigh had slid between hers, the way he had swallowed her moan like it belonged to him.At 4:17 a.m. her phone lit up on the nightstand, casting cold blue light across the ceiling.Cassian: Are you awake?She stared at the screen, heart kicking violently against her ribs.Elara: Yes.Cassian: Good. I can’t stop tasting you.

The orchestra launched into a bright, glittering foxtrot, but the sound felt miles away.Adrian crossed the remaining distance in four long strides. Up close he looked taller than memory allowed, broader in the shoulders, the boyish softness she once loved replaced by sharp angles and expensive tailoring. His blue eyes were bloodshot at the edges, as if he had not slept properly in weeks.“Elara,” he breathed. The single word cracked open two years of silence.Serena’s grip on her wrist tightened. “Adrian, this really isn’t.”“It’s okay,” Elara heard herself say. Her voice sounded foreign, thin. “I can handle it.”Serena hesitated, then released her with a worried glance before melting back into the crowd. The circle around them widened instinctively. People scented drama the way sharks scent blood.Adrian swallowed hard. “You look… God, you look incredible.”“Don’t.” The word left her lips sharper than intended. “Don’t do small talk. Not after two years of nothing.”His jaw flexed. “

Serena Vale texted her the next morning at 7:42 a.m.A single peach emoji and the words:Gala tonight. You’re coming. No is not an option.Elara stared at the message in the dim light of her hotel room, heart already racing. She had planned to spend the evening in sweatpants, eating room-service fries and pretending the city didn’t exist. Instead, eight hours later she stood barefoot in Serena’s sprawling Tribeca penthouse, wrapped in emerald silk that felt like liquid sin against her skin.Serena circled her like a proud fairy godmother, blonde curls bouncing, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.“Stop fidgeting. You look illegal in the best way.”The dress was backless, the fabric cool and slippery as it skimmed Elara’s spine, dipping so low she felt every breath of air-conditioning like a lover’s fingertip. Serena had spent an hour on her makeup: smoky liner that made Elara’s green eyes look almost feral, lips painted the deep red of spilled merlot. Loose waves of brunette hair tumb