Chapter 6 – The Invitation

The morning after the Whitlock gala felt strangely quiet.

Too quiet.

The world had been watching me last night — cameras flashing, whispers blooming like wildfire. I half expected to wake up to chaos. But the silence that filled my apartment wasn’t peace. It was the kind that comes before a storm.

My phone buzzed against the counter, screen lighting up with notifications. I didn’t even have to look to know what they were. I opened it anyway.

“Runaway bride attends Whitlock charity gala.”

“Elara Hale seen on balcony with Alexander Whitlock.”

“Whitlock heir’s ex-fiancée steals spotlight.”

I couldn’t help it — a small smile tugged at my lips. The press had eaten it up, just like Alexander said they would. Damien’s damage control team must’ve been tearing their hair out. My mother, too. She probably hadn’t expected me to walk straight into their world again — and certainly not on Alexander’s arm.

I scrolled through the photos. In one, I was standing close to him, his head tilted toward me like he was listening. In another, we were on the balcony, the city lights a blur behind us. The caption read:

“Alexander Whitlock — usually camera-shy — seen in conversation with his son’s former fiancée. Sources call the encounter ‘intimate.’”

Perfect.

I made myself tea, ignoring the knot forming in my stomach. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was anticipation — sharp and electric. Because last night, when Alexander looked at me, I saw something that terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me: curiosity.

He was interested. And a man like Alexander Whitlock didn’t get interested easily.

I’d just sat down when my phone rang again. Unknown number. I hesitated, then answered.

“Elara Hale?”

The voice was deep, composed, and instantly familiar.

I straightened. “Mr. Whitlock.”

There was a pause — long enough for my heart to remember how to race.

“I assume you’ve seen the news,” he said finally.

“I have,” I replied. “Congratulations. You’re trending.”

A quiet laugh. “And you don’t seem particularly upset about it.”

“I’ve been called worse than a headline,” I said, sipping my tea.

“I imagine you have,” he murmured. “Still, I’d rather hear the story from the source.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m having dinner at my townhouse tonight. Eight o’clock. I’d like you to join me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation dressed as a command.

I blinked, thrown off balance for the first time in days. “Why?”

“Because,” he said simply, “I like to know who’s capable of walking into a room full of wolves and smiling.”

The line went dead before I could answer.

I spent the rest of the day pacing. Rationally, I knew I should refuse. Getting closer to Alexander was dangerous — for me, for whatever sanity I had left. But curiosity works both ways.

By seven-thirty, I was standing in front of my mirror, staring at the reflection of a woman who looked nothing like the bride from a week ago. My black dress was sleek, understated, paired with a red lip that said I wasn’t there to apologize.

When I arrived, the Whitlock townhouse loomed over the street like a secret. It wasn’t as grand as the estate, but it had that same quiet power — the kind that didn’t need to announce itself.

The door opened before I could knock. Alexander stood there in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, no tie. It was the most casual I’d ever seen him, and somehow that made him even more dangerous.

“Elara,” he said, his voice smooth as old whiskey. “You’re punctual.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes to be kept waiting,” I said.

He smiled faintly and stepped aside. “You learn quickly.”

The townhouse smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. There were books everywhere — real ones, not the kind people buy to look intelligent. A grand piano sat near the window. The fire crackled quietly.

He led me to the dining room, where two glasses of wine already waited.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure I would either,” I admitted.

“But curiosity won.”

“Maybe.”

He studied me across the table. “Or maybe you’re planning your next move.”

I tilted my head. “And what makes you think I’m playing?”

His eyes glinted. “Because I am.”

There it was — honesty, laced with danger.

Dinner was… unexpected. He asked about my work, my family, my plans now that I was “free.” He never mentioned Damien directly, though his name hovered between us like smoke. Every answer I gave, Alexander turned over like a coin, testing its weight.

“You’re not like most people your age,” he said at one point. “You don’t flinch easily.”

“I’ve had practice.”

He nodded, almost approvingly. “Your mother, I assume?”

I didn’t respond. He didn’t push.

After dinner, he poured us both another glass and motioned toward the piano. “Do you play?”

“Not since I was a kid,” I said.

“Then listen.”

He sat and began to play — something slow, deliberate, almost haunting. His fingers moved with precision, like every note had a purpose. I watched him, the firelight catching in his hair, the sharp lines of his face softening for just a moment.

When the last note faded, I clapped softly. “You’re full of surprises.”

“So are you.”

He looked up then, meeting my gaze in a way that made the room feel smaller.

“Elara,” he said quietly, “why are you really here?”

I hesitated. I could have lied. But something about the way he asked — calm, unhurried — made the truth slip out before I could stop it.

“Because I’m tired of being the one who gets hurt first.”

He studied me for a long time. Then, softly, “Good. Hurt teaches us how to aim.”

A chill ran down my spine — not fear, exactly. Recognition.

We talked for another hour. Or maybe we didn’t talk much at all. The silence between us said more than words could. When I finally stood to leave, he walked me to the door.

As I reached for the handle, he said, “You know, they’ll see you as my next scandal.”

I glanced back. “Then I guess I’ll make it worth the headlines.”

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Be careful, Elara. People who play with fire rarely notice when they start to burn.”

I stepped closer, just enough to meet his gaze. “Maybe I’m not afraid of burning.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. Then I turned and walked out.

The night air was cold, biting at my skin as I crossed the street. My mind was spinning, but not with confusion — with clarity.

I’d gone there to understand him. Instead, I’d left with the unsettling feeling that he understood me.

When I got home, my phone was buzzing again. I tossed my purse aside and glanced at the screen.

It was a message.

From an unknown number.

“You looked lovely tonight. –A”

I stared at it, pulse quickening. He’d never asked for my number.

I typed back before I could think:

“Do you always text your son’s ex-fiancée?”

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

Finally, the reply:

“Only the ones who don’t bore me.”

I let out a shaky laugh, half disbelief, half adrenaline. I should have felt disgusted, or at least wary. Instead, I felt alive.

But the high didn’t last long. Because as I set the phone down, another message came in — this one from Maggie.

Mags: El… turn on the news. Now.

My stomach dropped. I grabbed the remote, the TV flickering to life.

A news anchor’s face filled the screen, serious, urgent.

“We’re following breaking news tonight regarding Damien Whitlock. Sources confirm that the Whitlock heir has been hospitalized after an apparent car accident on Highway 9…”

My breath caught.

“…police say the crash may not have been an accident.”

The room tilted.

“…and witnesses report seeing a black sedan fleeing the scene moments before impact.”

Black sedan.

I looked down at my phone. The message from Alexander still glowed on the screen.

You looked lovely tonight. –A

My blood ran cold.

The kettle began to whistle in the kitchen, shrill and piercing. I didn’t move. My mind replayed the night in pieces — his calm voice, his cryptic words, his warning.

People who play with fire rarely notice when they start to burn.

And for the first time, I wondered —

Was I the fire…

or just the next thing he planned to set alight?