Chapter 4

Leonard barely slept.

The lights of Paris faded behind the blackout curtains, but his mind kept replaying every moment of last night, her voice echoing in his head like a taunt, like a prophecy, like a final judgment he hadn’t earned the right to defy.

He sat at the window of the hotel suite, still in yesterday’s dress shirt, the top buttons undone, tie long discarded. A half empty whiskey glass sat by his side, untouched since 2 a.m.

Elara Hayes.

She had become everything.

And once, only once, she had been his.

He didn’t want to believe it at first. But the truth clawed its way back slowly, piece by piece.

That night in college had always been a blur in his memory. He’d been too drunk, too careless. But he remembered her. The smell of her hair. The trembling in her hands. The way she’d looked at him like he mattered, like she felt something.

And then he remembered something else.

The blood on the sheets.

He hadn't thought about it back then. Had pushed it aside as just another complication in a night he wanted to forget.

But now?

Now he remembered everything with aching clarity.

She hadn’t just been someone he used and discarded.

She had been untouched. Innocent. And he’d ruined her first time like it was a joke.

“Oh, God…” he whispered into the stillness, fingers curling into his scalp.

He hadn’t slept with anyone since that night. Not really. There had been distractions. Flings. A shallow relationship or two. But none of them stuck. None of them mattered. Something in him had always been… off. Distant. Detached.

And now he knew why.

He’d left a part of himself in that room with her.

And she’d taken the rest when she walked away.

By late morning, he was back in motion.

He canceled all his scheduled meetings. Ignored calls from his assistant. Put out a memo: Personal emergency. No press interviews.

Instead, he went hunting for information.

“Elara Hayes,” he said into the phone, pacing his suite. “I need everything. University records, old interviews, archived social content, pre Paris appearances. Yes, discreetly. I don’t want anyone knowing I’m asking.”

His old college friend and PR fixer, Marcus, sighed. “You really think she wants to talk to you after what you did back then?”

“I don’t know,” Leonard admitted. “But I have to see her.”

He paused. “I need to apologize.”

Marcus snorted on the line. “After all these years? That ship has sunk, burned, and been turned into a museum.”

“I need to know who she became. I need to talk to her, not the designer. Her.”

There was silence.

Then Marcus sighed. “Alright. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Leonard ended the call and sat back down.

He scrolled through Elara’s feed again.

Everything about her now was precision, clean lines, curated language, icy posture. She’d built walls with lace and steel. She didn’t need anyone. Especially not him.

But he needed to find a way past that wall.

Because somewhere behind it… was the girl who once looked at him like he was the entire world.

And he’d thrown that look away like it was garbage.

Later that afternoon, he called the fashion event organizers.

“I want to arrange a meeting with Elara Hayes,” he said. “To congratulate her personally.”

The woman on the other end hesitated. “Mr. Shaw… she’s requested privacy since the ceremony. She’s not accepting new press or personal appointments.”

He gritted his teeth. “This isn’t press. This is...”

“Her office left specific instructions. No contact unless filtered through her legal team.”

“Legal team?” he echoed, stunned.

“She’s… protective of her boundaries.”

He hung up.

He found the old photo again.

The yearbook shot.

He stared at it for a long time, longer than he could explain.

She had been awkward. Quiet. Practically invisible.

And yet, she remembered him.

Even when he’d forgotten her.

Even when he denied her.

Even when he broke her.

And now?

Now she didn’t want him to exist.

He sank back into the hotel couch, eyes closed, hands clenched in his lap.

“She was my first real connection,” he whispered to the dark. “And I destroyed it before I even understood what it meant.”

Leonard didn’t sleep again.

His phone buzzed at 4:07 a.m.

Marcus: She’s a silent partner in Cross Atelier’s latest Paris collection. I can make something happen. Emergency meeting. Tomorrow. Noon. But… keep your expectations low, Leo.

Leonard didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His mind was already racing.

Elara was connected to Julian Cross.

The Julian Cross.

Tech turned fashion mogul. Billionaire investor. And lately, the only man who’d been consistently seen near Elara Hayes.

Leonard hated how the thought of that twisted in his chest.

That should’ve been me.

The next morning, he arrived at Atelier Cross, seated in a private glass boardroom with panoramic views of the Seine. Everything gleamed, marble floors, leather seating, gilded lighting fixtures. No expense spared.

He’d been waiting fifteen minutes. Heart pounding with anticipation. Nervous energy gnawed at him. He straightened his cuffs, stood, paced, sat again.

She’ll come, he told himself. She has to come. She knows.

Then the doors opened.

His pulse kicked.

But it wasn’t her.

It was Julian Cross.

Cool. Composed. Wearing a slate gray suit tailored like armor and a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Leonard stood slowly.

“Julian,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re not who I was expecting.”

Julian closed the door behind him with a soft click and walked in, calm and unhurried.

“Good,” he said. “Because she’s not coming.”