Chapter 11

Julian's private rooftop, 12:45 pm.

The elevator opened with a soft chime, revealing a rooftop that looked more like a modern Eden than anything corporate.

Sleek white seating areas with marble tables were nestled between trimmed topiary and glass paneled railings that overlooked the skyline.

Sunlight filtered through the sheer linen canopy stretched above, casting dancing shadows over the terrace.

Julian stood near the edge, phone in hand, dressed in a charcoal button down and slate grey slacks, sleeves rolled up, tie absent.

When he turned and saw her, his expression shifted.

Admiration, barely hidden.

“Elara,” he greeted, stepping forward and pulling out her chair with a subtle smile. “You look…”

She arched a brow. “Like I deserve a raise?”

“Like I’d buy every dress you make just for an excuse to see you wear them.”

Her lips twitched. “Careful, Mr. Cross. Someone might say you’re flirting.”

“Would that be so terrible?”

She sat, ignoring the heat rising behind her collar. “You said this was business.”

“It is. For now.”

As she unfolded her napkin and took a sip of the cucumber infused water, he leaned forward.

“The investor’s name is Dominic Crane. Old money. Very private. He just sold two legacy properties in Paris and Milan, and rumor has it, he’s looking to buy into fashion again.”

She frowned slightly. “And he asked about me?”

“He asked about Elara Hayes,” Julian said, his eyes holding hers. “Specifically the vision behind your fall couture line. That’s not casual interest.”

Elara’s thoughts ticked. That collection hadn’t even gone public yet. Only a few concept pieces had been shared with partners. Whoever this man was, he’d done his research.

Julian watched her process in silence before adding, “I know the secrecy is odd. But he’s extremely low profile. No press, no PR. Just capital. Big capital.”

“Have you worked with him before?”

“Once. Years ago. When Cross Atelier was just rebuilding after the scandal with my uncle. He backed us anonymously. Then vanished again.”

Elara raised a brow. “And you trust him?”

Julian shrugged. “I trust results. And I trust you. If you’re not comfortable after meeting him, we walk away.”

She appreciated that.

Truly.

As their starters arrived, grilled peaches with burrata and mint, Elara let the weight in her chest loosen slightly.

She could do this.

The past didn’t have to follow her here.

“Julian,” she said suddenly, after a quiet pause, “do you ever wonder why I disappeared for so long? After school?”

His fork paused midair, then slowly lowered to the plate.

“I did,” he said, carefully. “But I figured you’d tell me if you ever wanted to.”

She looked down at her hands.

“I left because staying would’ve broken me,” she whispered.

Julian didn’t push. Didn’t prod. He simply nodded.

“And you came back stronger,” he said.

They locked eyes again.

And this time, there was no teasing.

No pretense.

Just quiet understanding.

Before Elara could answer, his phone buzzed.

He glanced down at the message and frowned. “He’s here.”

Elara’s spine straightened. “Now?”

“He’s early. But we’re ready.”

He stood and offered her his arm.

Elara hesitated, just for a moment, then slipped her fingers into the crook of his elbow.

Whatever this new mystery was, she would face it the same way she always had.

Head held high.

Alone if necessary.

But maybe, just maybe… not this time.

The office floor Julian led her into wasn’t like the others at Cross Atelier headquarters.

It was quieter, more insulated, with curved glass walls, minimalist furniture, and sleek black floors that reflected the sunlight streaming in from a skylight above.

Elara walked in beside Julian, the soft thud of her heels barely audible in the hushed space.

Her fingers were clenched tightly around her tote strap, though her face remained a perfect mask of control.

A part of her wished she’d worn armor instead of silk.

Julian stopped at the door to the private boardroom and looked at her. “You’re sure?”

Elara drew in a breath, then nodded once.

He pushed open the door.

Inside, two men were already seated at the long, matte black conference table. One of them, slim, silver haired, dressed in an impeccably tailored navy suit, stood as they entered.

The other didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Because Elara stopped breathing the moment she saw him.

Leonard.

The very last person she’d expected, or wanted, to see again.

And yet there he was, relaxed in his seat like he owned the building, one arm stretched lazily over the back of the leather chair, the same storm gray eyes watching her under those infuriating lashes.

He had aged, but not in the way that diminished him. If anything, the sharpness of his jaw, the polish in his bearing, and the sheer cold magnetism of his presence had only deepened.

The room tilted.

“Elara Hayes,” the older man, Dominic Crane, said smoothly, extending a hand. “A pleasure.”

She tore her eyes from Leonard and focused on the man beside him.

His palm was cool, dry, and firm. Eyes calculating.

“Mr. Crane,” she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. “I wasn’t told you’d be bringing a guest.”

“I wasn’t told you would be here,” Leonard said coolly, rising with infuriating elegance.

Julian's eyes flicked between the two of them.

Elara kept her expression neutral, but inside, her body screamed. Say nothing. Keep calm. This is business.

He didn’t miss the tone. His brows furrowed slightly, but he turned toward Crane. “Shall we sit?”

They took their seats, Elara deliberately choosing the far end of the table, opposite Leonard, though her skin prickled every time she felt his gaze sweep over her.

Dominic Crane folded his hands.

“Mr. Cross, Ms. Hayes, Leonard and I are considering acquiring a 30% equity stake in two promising fashion ventures. One is yours, obviously. The other is under consideration in Milan. We wanted to meet face to face and discuss potential synergies and direction.”

“Before that,” Leonard cut in, eyes on Elara, “I’d like to say something.”