Mira, my assistant, was grinning from ear to ear. She stood in my doorway with a massive, glossy orange shopping bag dangling from her fist.
"He sent you a Birkin," she announced, dropping the bag on my desk. It landed with a soft, expensivethump. She leaned in, lowering her voice. "First chance I get, I am trying to fuck your man. This is not a joke. This is a five-year plan."
I couldn’t help but laugh. I could see the dollar signs in her eyes. For the past seventy-two hours, Julian’s apology tour had been… extravagant. First, the impossible-to-get reservation at Nami. Then, the first-edition signed copy of my mother’s favorite novel. And now this. It was over-the-top, ridiculous, and so utterlyhim.
What woman wouldn’t want that? I did. I wasn't even mad anymore; I finally understood why he was the way he was. I had strung him along, then tried to get rid of him when it wasn’t convenient for me. He deserved to be a little unhinged. He deserved to be possessive. He’d earned the right to his grand, obsessive outburst because I had played in his face.
"Open it! I need to see this up close," Mira insisted, bouncing on her heels.
I was just pulling the box from the bag when another presence filled the doorway. The air changed, cooling several degrees. Alistair stood there, hovering awkwardly. He looked… different. The perpetual sneer was gone, replaced by a tense, uncertain expression.
“Elara,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically careful. “Sorry to interrupt. Can I… ask you about the shoot tonight? The lighting brief from the photographer. I need some pointers.”
My eyebrow rose. I stared at him. This was new. A dark, uncharitable thought bloomed in my mind:That ass-whooping Julian gave him did some real good.
Mira gave me a wide-eyed look and mouthed ‘later’ before slipping out, closing the door softly behind her.
“Sure,” I said, pushing the Birkin box aside. “Pull up the brief.”
For the next twenty minutes, we actually discussed business. Not him posturing or undermining, but him asking and me explaining. It was the most functional interaction we’d had in a decade. As he stood to leave, he hesitated again, turning back.
“My father… he’s feeling better today. More coherent. My mother is making that rosemary chicken he likes. She was hoping… you might come home for dinner tonight.”
And there it was. The invitation hung in the air.Home.That word didn’t match what that place felt like to me anymore. I saw the calculation behind his eyes—the desperate attempt to re-establish normalcy, to pull me back into the fold before I fully slipped away. But then I thought about his father. Mr. Ashworth, in his better moments, had been kind to me.
Against my better judgment, I said, “Alright.” My voice was neutral. The decision felt like a small betrayal, a secret kept. “I’ll come.”
I wouldn’t tell Julian until after.
Chapter 33
Elara
Dinner at the Ashworth estate didn’t go as I expected. I was prepared for manipulation, gaslighting, and pleas—but they never came. The table was set with the good china. Mrs. Ashworth fluttered about, filling my glass before it was half empty. Mr. Ashworth, propped up with cushions at the head of the table, managed a few frail but coherent questions about quarterly projections. His gaze lingered on me with a watery mix of gratitude and guilt.
Isn’t it funny how people will use you when they’re at their best without any hesitation, without any thanks… but the second their world collapses, suddenly you’re their missing limb?
Even Brielle was on her best behavior, speaking only when spoken to, her eyes downcast. The air was thick with a collective, unspoken terror:She’s leaving. We have to make her stay.
“Elara… you’ve always been such a blessing to this family,” Mr. Ashworth said out of nowhere.
He saidblessing. I heardtool.Crutch.
“Thank you,” I said simply, leaving it at that.
As the dessert plates were cleared, Mrs. Ashworth laid her hand over mine. Her skin was cool. “We’ve missed you at the house. It hasn’t felt the same without you, and you’ve been working sohard. Your old room is always made up. Why don’t you just stay? It would be so much easier.”
There it was. The first gentle tug on the chain.
“Elara…” Alistair cut in, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “We’re not asking for anything. We just… want you to know we’re still family.”
I looked around the table. They were trying to close their gates around me one last time. I slowly withdrew my hand, placing my napkin neatly beside my plate. I forced a small smile.
“I appreciate the invitation, and thank you for dinner,” I said, my voice clear. “It was… lovely. But I’m not staying.”
I stood, the legs of my chair scraping softly against the polished floor. “I’m going home.”
The version of me that stayed for them died months ago. I walked out of the dining room, through the grand foyer, and out the front door without looking back. Outside, the air was cold and clean, nothing like the stale nostalgia clinging to the walls inside.
