The moment I tied the silk, her breath caught—a tiny, involuntary hitch I felt down my spine. She hated vulnerability. I loved her in it. I put my hands on her waist. “Walk,” I murmured, guiding her toward the elevator.
Quinn stayed behind. I pressed the button for the top floor and kept her tucked against me. She smelled of vanilla and something floral.
“Julian,” she warned as we hit the metal stairs to the roof. “These are stairs.”
“I expect you to trust me,” I said.
She went quiet. Not because she agreed—Elara never made anything easy—but because the wordtrusthit her like it always did. She couldn't deny that she did. I helped her up each step, my palms firm on her waist. She stumbled once, and my hand snapped to her stomach, catching her before gravity could even consider her.
“See?” I whispered against her ear. “I’ve got you.”
At the final step, I stopped her. “Stay still.”
A breeze swept over us, carrying the smell of grilled seafood. I untied the silk slowly, stepping aside to see her reaction.
The rooftop was transformed. Lanterns across the pergola. A table set with her favorite dishes. Wine chilling. And the cake, lit with a single gold candle, with the city stretching out behind us.
Her lips parted. “Happy birthday,” I said quietly.
Her eyes glistened. “Julian… this is beautiful.” She walked over to the cake. “You made this?”
“I did.”
“It’s so ugly. And why is there a piece missing?” I could hear the tears in her voice.
“I had to make sure it wasn't poison.”
Dinner was a blur. My stomach was in knots. When the plates were cleared, I couldn't stand the tension.
“You said once… your mother, Saby Vance, used to sing. That she loved jazz.”
Elara went very still.
“I had someone do me a favor. Everyone who sings that well leaves a trace. A recording, a demo.” I reached for the portable speaker and pressed play.
The crackle of old tape filled the air, then a soft piano intro. And then a voice—warm, rich, honey over gravel—began to sing.
Elara made a small, broken whimper. She didn't move; she just stared into the distance as if seeing a ghost. Then a single tear tracked down her cheek. Then another.
“How?” she whispered. “Why are you so good to me?”
“I told you,” I said, my voice thick. “I pay attention. The studio she used in college still had the master reels from 1996. I bought them. This is the only copy.”
She looked at me, her face wrecked and open. “Why?”
“Because I love you,” I said. “And you deserve this. You deserve to be cherished, Elara. Every single day.”
The silence lasted too long. Then she said it.
“I love you, too.”
Three words. Four syllables. The world stopped. For three years, I’d said those words into a void. Into her hair while she slept, into her skin when she came. I’d never heard them back.
My brain short-circuited. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I moved before I could think, threading my fingers into her hair and pulling her toward me.
“Don’t,” I growled, a ragged plea. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. Don’t you fucking dare. I can handle your silence. I can’t handle you lying about this.”
Her eyes, swimming with tears, held no deceit. “I mean it,” she whispered. “I do.”
