Chapter 32
Elara
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, expensive thump. 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 utterly him.
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.