The Morning After

Beams of dawn light filtered in through the billowy silk curtains and bathed the rumpled sheets on which Ella and Alexander were sleeping in a soft, warm glow. The passion of the night had left, and been replaced by a gossamer silence, punctuated only by their breathing.

Ella awoke to reality with a flutter of the eyes, morning becoming real. She stilled, the weight of Alexander's arm an all-encompassing reminder that they had gone way over the line.

The silence was broken by Alexander's rasping voice as if he had just woken up "Good morning.

Her heart leapt as she turned to look at him, his hair all over the place combined with the stubble surrounding his jaw. Good morning, she whispered.

They stood, and were faced with the electric question hanging between them: What next? Now, dressed in silence, each of them moved slowly with the sense that it might prolong their final farewell.

Alexander stared at her, his eyes burning. "Last night.... he started, but Ella interrupted him.

No, it was a mistake," she declared as perfectly as her eyes would let her.

He rose to reduce the distance between them. "Was it?" He cupped her cheek when he finally spoke, Was it just us being real than we've ever been?

And Ella flinched, his touch traveling up her arm like electric heat. "Oh, n-no," she said and stepped back. " I had a story to tell, and you.. are the subject.

Alexander's face went hard. I am not a headline, Ella.

She met his gaze, her own hardening. "And I'm more than a one-night stand."

Ella left the penthouse with the echo in their communique ringing in her ears. She descended to the foyer, her thoughts a whirlwind of emotion and doubt. Had she just ruined the largest story of her career for a fleeting second of preference?

She hailed a cab, the town passing by in a blur as she attempted to piece together her thoughts. The driving force's idle chatter changed into a far off hum, lost within the storm of her internal turmoil.

Back at her condo, Ella showered, the new water and futile try to wash away the recollections of the night. She stood earlier than her reflection, the same one she had confronted the night before, but now the mirrored image confirmed a female changed, touched by way of the fireplace of Alexander Knight.

She sat at her table, her laptop open to a blank report. The tale was there, within her, but it became tangled with emotions she couldn't manage to pay for to sense. She typed an unmarried sentence, then deleted it, the cursor blinking ironically.

A knock at the door shook him out of his reverie. She opened it to find a delivery guy preserving a bouquet of blue orchids—the identical shade as her dress from the gala.

"No card," the man said, handing her the plants.

Ella closed the door, the orchids cradled in her arms. She knew they were from Alexander, a silent message that last night was supposed to be something, that it wasn't only a mistake.

She located the vegetation in a vase, their beauty a stark assessment to the chaos of her thoughts. She sat backpedal, the blank report waiting.

Alexander sat in his office, the city sprawled under him. He had tried to focus on paintings, but his mind saved drifting lower back to Ella, to the fireplace in her eyes and the softness of her lips.

He picked up his phone, dialed her number, then hung up. He couldn't name her, now not while he had no idea what he could say.

A knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts. "Come in," he stated, his voice regular.

His assistant entered, a stack of papers in hand. "Your agenda for the day, Mr. Knight."

He took the papers, his eyes scanning the infinite conferences and commitments. "Thank you," he said, his mind already some place else.

Ella finally began to write down, the words flowing as she indifferent herself from the story, from Alexander. She wrote of the gala, of the opulence and the secrets hidden behind the grins. She wrote of Alexander Knight, the untouchable billionaire with a fear of heights.

She paused, her palms soaring over the keyboard. She could not write about the kiss, about the manner he had made her sense. That turned into hers, a mystery she would keep locked away.

The article became completed, a masterpiece of journalism, however it lacked the coronary heart of the story. Ella knew she needed to make a desire—her profession or the fact of what had taken place between her and Alexander.

She saved the document, her selection made. She might inform the tale, it all, despite the fact that it meant exposing her very own vulnerability.

Alexander received the object tomorrow, the phrases a replicate to the night time they had shared. He studies it, every sentence a testament to Ella's expertise and integrity.

He picked up his telephone, dialed her variety, and this time, he permitted it to ring.

"Hello?" Ella's voice becomes careful.

"It's me," Alexander stated. "I read your article."

There was a pause, a breath held among them. "And?" Ella requested.

"It's remarkable," he said, his voice sincere. "But you ignored the exceptional element."

Ella laughed, a sound that warmed him extra than he cared to confess. "Some testimonies are higher lived than informed," she responded.

Alexander smiled, the load of the arena lifting for a second. "Ella, I—"

The line went dead, the decision dropped. Alexander stared at the smartphone, the silence echoing louder than any phrases could.

He appeared out at the city, the concern of heights reminiscence. He had fallen, now not from a building, but for a lady who had seen thru the facade to the person underneath.

And as he stood there, the billionaire with the whole thing and not anything, he realized that Ella Jameson had ended up with his greatest tale, one which he changed into the handiest just starting to write.