"A backflip off a—" I shake my head, deciding I don't need more details. "You know what, I believe it. That man defies physics on a regular basis."
We skate in comfortable silence for a while, the music washing over us, the lights twinkling above. My confidencegrows with each lap—not enough that I'd dare let go of Elias, but enough that I'm no longer terrified of face-planting on the ice.
"Thank you," I say eventually, the words feeling inadequate for everything I want to express. "For this. For all of it. The rink, the lights, Safiya—I don't know how you knew exactly what I needed to hear, but..."
"I pay attention," he says simply. "You mentioned loving the Safiya Sunrise once. I tracked her down through the specialty coffee network—turns out she was already planning to be in the area for a conference. The rest just fell into place."
He tracked down an internationally renowned barista because I mentioned liking a drink she created. He rented an entire ice rink and decorated it with fairy lights. He thought about what I needed—not just what would be fun or romantic, but what would actually matter to me on a deeper level.
These men. These impossible, thoughtful, wonderful men.
The song changes again, something even slower, and Elias pulls me closer. We're barely moving now, more swaying than skating, his arms wrapped around me and my head resting against his chest. I can hear his heartbeat—steady and strong, a rhythm I'm beginning to know almost as well as my own.
He tilts my chin up with gentle fingers, and then he's kissing me—tender and unhurried, a promise sealed in the soft press of his lips against mine. The fairy lights twinkle around us. The music swells. The ice beneath our feet holds us steady.
He seals his promise with a tender kiss.
CHAPTER 29
Masks And Revelations
~JULIAN~
This was a mistake.
I've known it from the moment I stepped through the gilded doors of the Thornewood Estate, but the certainty crystallizes as I stand in the center of the grand ballroom, surrounded by people I despise wearing smiles I don't trust. The Versailles Valentine's Day Ball—the most exclusive event of the season, held in the wealthiest neighborhood in Oakridge Hollow, attended by everyone who matters and plenty of people who only think they do.
And I'm here alone. Like an idiot. Like someone who still believes connections matter more than dignity.
The ballroom is obscene in its opulence—a deliberate recreation of Versailles' Hall of Mirrors, complete with seventeen arched mirrors reflecting seventeen matching windows that look out onto the estate's snow-covered gardens. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hang from the painted ceiling, their thousands of candles casting everything in a warm, flickering glow that makes even the most plastic smilesseem genuine. The walls are covered in gold leaf and elaborate moldings, cherubs and flowers and scenes of mythological excess frozen in plaster. Red roses overflow from towering arrangements on every surface, their cloying sweetness mixing with the perfumes and colognes of two hundred guests until the air itself feels expensive.
My suit fits perfectly—it always does, that's what tailors are for—a deep aubergine velvet that catches the candlelight and shifts between purple and black depending on the angle. The fabric is Italian, the cut French, the black silk tie a deliberate contrast to the richness of the jacket. I'd had my hair dyed silver for the occasion, the pale metallic shade pulled back and secured at the nape of my neck in a low tail that the stylist assured me gave "vintage aristocratic vibes." Whatever that means.
I look the part. I always look the part. That's never been the problem.
The problem is the whispers that follow me through the room like a persistent plague. The sidelong glances. The way conversations pause when I approach and resume with renewed vigor when I pass. News travels fast in these circles—faster than light, faster than reason—and the news of my near-disaster with the D&G campaign has apparently reached every ear in attendance.
I catch fragments as I move through the crowd, each one a small knife sliding between my ribs:
"—almost lost the contract, can you imagine?—"
"—Late Alphas, they call them, such a tragedy?—"
"—thirty-five and still no Omega, there must be something wrong?—"
"—heard he had to pull strings just to keep his spot?—"
Vultures. Every single one of them. Circling, waiting, hoping to see me fall so they can pick apart the carcass of my reputation.
I grab a flute of champagne from a passing server—Moët, at least they haven't skimped on the alcohol—and find a spot near one of the massive mirrors where I can survey the room without being trapped in conversation. The reflection that stares back at me looks tired. Elegant, yes. Expensive, certainly. But tired in a way that no amount of designer fabric can disguise.
I should have brought Rosemarie.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I don't push it away. I'd had the invitation ready for a week. Two tickets to the Versailles Ball, embossed in gold on cream cardstock, tucked into an envelope with her name written in my careful script. I'd even practiced how I'd ask—casual, like it wasn't a big deal, like I hadn't spent three days finding the right words. "There's an event. Boring, probably. But the food is decent and you'd get to see how the other half lives. If you're interested."
Smooth. Nonchalant. Nothing that could be mistaken for actually caring.
But then I'd walked into the living room and found her squealing.
