Chapter 2

Elara

I found Lucien’s driver waiting near the service gate when I stormed out, searching for an escape.

He blinked at me in confusion. “Something wrong, ma’am?”

“Can you take me home, please?” I said. “I forgot some important files for Mr. Beaumont.”

He gave me a questioning look but nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”

He quietly opened the door for me and said nothing when I asked him to speed up before my sister or best friend would come out looking for me.

I kept my face turned toward the window as we pulled away from the venue and four years of my life. The lump in my throat grew, but my eyes were mercifully dry.

By the time the car stopped in front of my building, I felt numb and hollow.

I powered off my buzzing phone, thanked the driver and told him to leave.

He didn’t ask about the files, he simply nodded and drove away.

The first thing my eyes landed on as I entered my apartment was the wedding gift basket and the two plane tickets to France for a honeymoon that would never happen.

The two weeks' leave I’d planned to take after the Milan project was finalized had become useless now. All my excited plans in the most romantic city in the world had become a stupid fairytale dream.

My chest ached as I fell into bed. Only then did I break apart. The tears came like a flood and washed away the shattered pieces of my heart into nothingness.

Sleep was a disaster. For every time I closed my eyes, the video replayed on a loop. Elliot’s hands. The angle of the woman’s neck. His soundless passionate thrusting.

Whoever sent the video must’ve known to send it without audio. They must’ve known hearing it would ruin me.

How had I been so blind?

All the gallery exhibitions I invited him to that he either arrived late to or not at all, because a financial audit ran too long or traffic was bad.

The dinner reservations I made and went alone because he had “completely forgotten the date and got held up.”

I had chalked it up to wedding stress. Work pressure. The natural distance that came with planning a life together.

All along I was the fool protecting something that was already gone.

By morning, the hurt sat in my chest like a solid anchor pulling me into a sea of despair. I moved through the apartment hunched over and sobbing like a child.

I had always known how to work harder, how to adjust timelines, how to fix what was broken.

But this…how did I fix this?

Helplessness was a new sensation. One I refused to entertain.

I dug out my phone, turned it on and called Lucien. Grasping onto the last straw of distraction I could think of.

He answered on the first ring. “Miss Whitmore.”

“Good morning, Mr. Beaumont. When are we leaving for Santorini?”

A brief pause followed. “You’re not expected to travel. Take the time off and get yourself in order.”

I shook my head desperately. “I don’t want time. I want to work.”

“Elara.” It was the first time he had used my first name on a business call. “You left your wedding yesterday. No one is asking you to board a plane this morning.”

“I’m asking.” My voice cracked on the second word. I pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes and forced the rest out before I could stop myself. “I can’t stay here. This apartment is suffocating. I need to work. Work is the only part of my life that still makes sense. Let me come, please, sir. I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll do the research, write the reports, whatever you need. Just… don’t leave me here.”

Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I could hear the faint sound of papers being set down.

He exhaled once, long and controlled. “Be ready in thirty minutes. A car will collect you.”

“Thank you, Mr Beaumont.”

I hung up before either of us could say anything else.

Wiping my eyes, I steeled my spine and set about packing a suitcase.

It took all of ten minutes. My passport, laptop, the business casual outfits I carried on acquisition trips, the book I used for notes and flat practical shoes.

I threw out the gift basket and plane tickets, took a quick shower and tucked away my heartbreak for a later date.

When Vivienne’s name lit up the screen, I powered the phone off again and dropped it into the bottom of my bag.

At seven-thirty, a black sedan pulled up to the curb. The driver got out to open my door and help with the suitcase.

In fifteen minutes, the cityscape dissolved into the sprawling landscape of the airport.

Lucien was waiting near the glass doors of the private terminal entrance, a single leather carry-on at his feet. He looked as composed as he always did—dark suit tailored to absolute perfection, not a single strand of dark hair out of place, his expression unreadable. He was focused on the itinerary glowing on his tablet.

I braced myself for the wall of judgment I knew was coming. After all, I had left his nephew at the altar.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped up to him. "Lucien."

He looked up from the screen. His dark eyes flicked over me—taking in the oversized sweater I’d thrown on, the dark circles under my eyes, the total absence of the polished employee he knew.

For a second, the silence stretched so thin it felt dangerous. I expected the harsh reproach, the cold lecture, or at least a sharp flick of disgust.

Instead, he simply nodded once in greeting. "Miss Whitmore."

He gestured toward the tarmac behind the glass, where the sleek white private jet waited. "They’re ready for us."

That was it. No, How could you? No, Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Just an icy, mechanical efficiency that made my skin prickle far more than a shouting match would have.

He turned and began walking toward the gate. I fell into step behind him, keeping a deliberate two paces of distance between us.

We had to clear security in the private lounge—a brief, ceremonial affair, but one that required standing entirely too close to one another in a small, carpeted room. Lucien stepped up to hand the attendant his passport. As he pulled the document from his inner jacket pocket, his forearm brushed against my shoulder.

It was a fraction of a second of contact, but I flinched, stepping back so quickly my heel caught the edge of my own bag.

Lucien turned instantly, his hand reaching out by sheer reflex to catch my elbow and steady me. His fingers wrapped around my arm through the thin fabric of my sweater. His grip was warm, solid, and entirely too firm.

"Careful," he murmured.

I stared down at his hand on my arm. The hand that had never touched me before now and elicited such a response. His fingers unclenched immediately, dropping back to his side as if he had accidentally touched a live wire. He stepped back, re-establishing the strict, invisible border between us.

"Thank you," I muttered, my voice tight.

We passed the security check without another word. And boarded in silence.