Chapter Two - Gravity

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 tumbled down her back, catching the golden light of the chandelier.

“I feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life,” Elara admitted, twisting to see the mirror’s reflection.

Serena stepped behind her, resting her chin on Elara’s shoulder, meeting her eyes in the glass.

“You’re allowed to be beautiful,” she said softly. “It’s not a betrayal of who you were yesterday.”

Something in the gentleness of it made Elara’s throat tight. She nodded, swallowing the sudden burn of tears.

The charity gala was held in the old Federal Reserve Bank building on Liberty Street. Marble floors stretched like frozen rivers, gold-leaf ceilings soared forty feet above them, and chandeliers dripped diamonds of light that fractured across champagne flutes and diamond collars. Serena tugged her through the crowd, introducing her as “my person” to hedge-fund princes and old-money heiresses whose smiles never reached their Botox.

Elara clung to a flute of champagne she barely sipped, hyper-aware of every stare that lingered too long. She was laughing at Serena’s whispered commentary about a socialite’s obviously botched nose job when the air changed.

It was subtle at first: conversations dipped half a beat, heads turned, the orchestra’s strings seemed to tighten. Then she felt it. An invisible thread pulled every atom in the room toward the arched entrance.

Cassian Vale did not walk into a room.

The room rearranged itself around him.

He stood framed by the doorway, six feet two inches of lethal elegance in a midnight tuxedo tailored so perfectly it looked painted on. Dark skin glowed against crisp white shirt, shoulders that carried the weight of empires, storm-gray eyes scanning the crowd with the calm of a predator who already knew where his prey stood.

When those eyes locked on her, the noise of the ballroom vanished.

Serena squealed beside her, gripping her wrist. “Cass! Come meet my person!”

He moved like water: fluid, inevitable, parting the crowd without effort. Every step closed the distance until he was right in front of her, close enough that she caught cedar, smoke, and something darker. Danger wrapped in expensive cologne.

His hand enveloped hers, warm, firm, thumb brushing the frantic pulse at her wrist once, slow, deliberate.

“Elara Monroe,” he said, voice low and rough, tasting every syllable like wine he’d waited a decade to drink. “Finally.”

Serena beamed between them, oblivious to the electricity crackling in the air. “Isn’t she stunning? I found her first, big brother.”

Cassian never looked away from Elara. “I can see that.”

The orchestra slid into a slow, aching waltz. He tilted his head. Permission and command in one. She should have said no. Instead, her feet moved before her brain caught up.

On the dance floor, the world narrowed to the heat of his palm low on her bare back, the way his thumb traced tiny, deliberate circles that sent sparks straight to her spine. He guided her effortlessly, one hand splayed possessively just above the curve of her hip, the other cradling hers against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat. Steady, strong, betraying nothing.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“I don’t usually let strangers hold me this close.”

“I’m not a stranger,” he said, the words vibrating against her skin. “I’m just the man who’s waited a very long time to meet you.”

Her breath hitched. “Why does that sound like a threat?”

“Because it is,” he admitted, voice velvet and steel. “And a promise.”

He spun her slowly, the emerald silk flaring around her thighs. When he pulled her back in, her body pressed flush against his for one breathless second. Long enough to feel exactly how much he was not unaffected. Heat flared low in her belly.

The song ended too soon. He did not release her immediately. Instead, he reached into his inner pocket and slipped a matte black card into her palm: his name in raised silver lettering, a single phone number beneath, nothing else.

“In case you ever want the truth,” he said quietly, thumb stroking once across her knuckles before letting go. “Or just someone who sees you.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving only the scent of cedar and the ghost of his touch branded into her skin.

Damian Locke materialized at her elbow like smoke, drink in hand, dark eyes glittering with amusement.

“Careful, darling,” he purred, watching Cassian’s retreating back. “Some men collect beautiful things just to break them.”

Elara’s fingers tightened around the black card until the edges bit into her palm.

Across the ballroom, a latecomer stepped through the double doors and froze.

Adrian Vale.

Blonde hair a little longer than she remembered, blue eyes wide with shock, pale skin flushed beneath the chandeliers. He looked exactly the same and completely different. Older, harder around the edges, dressed in a tux that screamed money he had not possessed when they were together.

His gaze snapped to her face, then to the black card still burning in her hand, then to Cassian’s retreating silhouette disappearing up the marble staircase. Something raw and painful flashed across his features. Recognition, regret, and something darker.

Elara’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard she thought it might bruise.

Serena followed her stare and gasped. “Oh my God… Adrian’s here. I didn’t know he was coming tonight.”

Adrian started moving toward them, weaving through the crowd with single-minded focus, blue eyes locked on Elara like she was the only real thing in the room.

Serena grabbed Elara’s wrist. “Do you want me to get rid of him?”

Elara couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.

Because in one single night, the city had handed her three impossible things:

A friend who felt like sunlight.

A stranger who felt like fate.

And a past that had just walked back in wearing heartbreak on its sleeve.

Adrian was ten feet away now, mouth opening to say her name.

When Cassian reappeared at the top of the staircase, leaning against the balustrade, gray eyes unreadable as he watched the scene unfold below. One corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile, more the promise of one.

Gravity, Elara realized with a dizzying lurch, had a name.

And it was pulling her straight into the storm.