MasukElias pov The loft still buzzed with congratulations. I couldn't hear any of it—just the rush of blood in my ears, the hollow thump of my heart against my ribs.Camille's hand found mine. Squeezed. "Darling, the guests are watching."I let her lead me through the crowd. Faces blurred past—my mother's tears, my father's proud nod, Julien's frozen expression. Mira stood where I'd left her, champagne glass shattered at her feet, her dark eyes fixed on Camille's stomach.I couldn't look at her.The elevator doors closed. We descended in silence, Camille's hand still wrapped around mine, her grip firm and possessive. The lobby of the loft building stretched before us, marble floors and a single chandelier casting cold light."Camille." My voice was gravel. "Stop."She released my hand. Turned to face me, her smile patient, expectant."How?" The word came out raw. "How are you pregnant? I haven't touched you. Not once. Not in months.""Touch is not the only way to make a child, Elias." Her
Elias pov Living with Camille was a masterclass in suffocation.The penthouse I’d once filled with Mira’s laughter now echoed with Camille’s precise footsteps, her measured breaths, the click of her heels on marble like a countdown I couldn’t escape. Three months. Ninety-three days of shared space and separate beds, of breakfasts where she read the financial section aloud like a performance, of evenings where she’d sit across from me in the living room, her eyes never quite leaving my face.Sometimes she was gracious. Almost warm.Those were the worst days.Because I’d catch myself relaxing, forgetting the knife she held at my throat, and then she’d mention the photographs casually—how well they’d developed, how sharp the lighting was, how useful good documentation could be.“Did you ever love her?” I asked one night. The question slipped out before I could catch it.Camille looked up from her tablet. Her eyebrows rose, elegant and slow. “Who?”“Who do you think?”She smiled. It didn
Mira pov Morning light filtered through the bedroom curtains, pale and golden, casting stripes across the rumpled sheets. I stirred, the warmth of Julien’s body pressed against my back, his arm heavy around my waist.The smell hit me first.Coffee. Bacon. Something sweet baking.I opened my eyes. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool where he’d been. I sat up, my hair a tangled mess, and followed the scent through the apartment.Julien stood at the stove in sweatpants and a white t-shirt, his back to me. A tray sat on the counter—scrambled eggs, toast points arranged in a fan, fresh fruit sliced into perfect crescents. A single rose in a glass.“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he said without turning.“You’re supposed to be in bed.”He glanced over his shoulder, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I couldn’t wait.” He turned off the burner, picked up the tray, and carried it to the table. “Sit.”I sat. The plate was warm beneath my fingertips. He’d dusted the e
Mira pov The drive back from the Berkshires was silent.Julien’s hands stayed locked on the wheel, his jaw tight, the highway lights sliding across his face in pale yellow streaks. I sat beside him, the taste of Elias’s kiss still burning on my tongue, and I said nothing.I didn’t tell him.How could I? I followed your brother to a corridor. He told me his marriage was a lie. He kissed me, and for three seconds, I kissed him back.The words sat in my throat like stones.Julien’s apartment smelled like rosemary and garlic when we walked in. He’d prepped before the wedding—short ribs marinating, vegetables chopped, a bottle of red breathing on the counter. He moved through the kitchen with the same focused economy he used at work, lighting the oven, pulling out pans, his back to me the whole time.“You don’t have to cook,” I said.“I want to.”The answer was clipped. Precise. I leaned against the counter and watched him work, the way his hands moved with a chef’s confidence—seasoning,
Elias pov The organ swelled. The congregation rose. I stood at the altar, and my mind was a thousand miles away.Camille appeared at the end of the aisle, white silk cascading around her like a waterfall. She looked perfect. She looked like a photograph. My eyes traced her progress—past the pews, past the flower arrangements, past the guests who smiled and tilted their heads and thought they were watching a love story.I saw none of it.I saw Mira in a navy dress, somewhere in the back. I felt her presence like a pressure against my ribs, a second heartbeat I couldn't quiet.The minister spoke. Words about love, about commitment, about the sacred bond of marriage. They slid off me like water off stone. My mouth moved when it was supposed to. I said I do before I knew I'd spoken.Camille's ring slid onto my finger. Cold. Precise. A perfect fit.I didn't hear the applause. Didn't see the rose petals thrown in our path. My hand found Camille's, and we walked back down the aisle together
Two months folded into each other like the pages of a book I didn't want to finish.The argument with Julien had lasted four days. Four days of silence in the kitchen, of him working the far side of the line, of Luis glancing between us with his gold-toothed smirk and Maria cornering me in the walk-in with questions I didn't have answers to.On the fifth day, he found me after close."Walk with me," he said.We took the long way through the hotel's service corridors, past the dish pit and the dry storage, until we reached the loading dock. The city hummed beyond the railing. He leaned against it, arms crossed, and looked at me with those dark, precise eyes."I've been thinking," he said."Dangerous."He almost smiled. "I meant what I said that night. I don't want to be your safe harbor.""You're not.""Let me finish." He exhaled. "I love you, Mira. That's not a question. But I won't be the man you settle for because the one you actually want is unavailable."The words landed, clean an







