Two days away from her.
I fucking hate it.
My phone vibrates.
I look down so fast it’s pathetic.
“Are you working late?”
God.
If only she knew.
I stare at the message for a long moment, letting it soak through me like warmth in cold bones.
“Something like that.”
Another truth wrapped in silk.
I think about telling her. I think about stripping back the curtain and letting her see who I really am, the empire, the pressure, the business, the weight. But then I imagine her looking at me differently. Imagine the shift in her eyes. Imagine losing the one person who sees me without the power, without the name, without the fucking crown.
I can’t risk it.
Not yet.
The plane evens out.
The world settles.
My pulse doesn’t.
I tuck my phone into my palm and turn toward the window, watching the sky swallow the last of the city below.
She doesn’t know I’m gone. She doesn’t know who I am.
But I’ll come back to her anyway.
I always do.
The wheels kiss the tarmac like a sigh, soft, controlled, deceptively calm compared to the storm sitting in my chest.
I unclip my belt, grab my jacket, and step into Melbourne’s heat. It hits me in a wave of warm asphalt, jet fuel, the sharp city tang that always feels like home and warning in the same breath.
And there he is.
Elias waits beside the glossy black Audi, hands clasped, posture straight as a soldier. His salt-and-pepper hair is tied back today, his shirt crisp, his eyes carrying that same quiet loyalty I’ve leaned on for years.
“Welcome back, sir,” he says with a half-smile, the closest thing he gives to affection.
“Good to be back,” I answer, clasping his hand and pulling him into a brief shoulder bump. “You been behaving?”
“Always. The building’s running smooth. Fresh produce in the fridge. Housekeeping left you a note.” He raises a brow. “And she made your favourite. The lamb slow-braise.”
My stomach growls on cue. “Christ, I missed that.”
Elias opens the passenger door. “City’s busy tonight. They’ve got some festival or another. Lights everywhere. You’ll see.”
I slide into the cool leather, the door shutting with a click that feels final, somehow like I’ve crossed into another version of myself. The Melbourne version. The masked version. I’m not sure I like him anymore.
