It was raining in London the night of the Castellan Foundation Gala—just enough to streak the windows of the car, enough to blur the city lights into a soft watercolor as the driver pulled up to the entrance of the private hall in Mayfair.
Aria's fingers curled around the clutch in her lap, knuckles white.
Leon noticed. "We can still turn around," he said, his voice gentle beneath the sound of the rain.
She shook her head, the faintest smirk curving her lips. "You said they'd talk, didn't you?"
"They will." His hand found hers between them. "But I'll never let them touch you."
Outside the window, cameras flashed. Not wildly—not yet. Just the occasional strobe of anticipation, the low hum of recognition as the valet opened Leon's door. The world still saw him as the Castellan heir. The storm-scarred golden boy of finance. The quiet, ruthless strategist who disappeared from headlines only to come back with more power than before.
Tonight, they'd see something else.
He stepped out first, adjusting his tuxedo and nodding briefly to the staff. He turned, extending a hand into the car as if this moment were rehearsed.
It wasn't.
Aria stepped out slowly, one heel, then the other.
The gown was midnight-blue velvet, sleeveless, with a high collar and a single daring slit. The cut framed her like something timeless. Hair swept back. Minimal jewelry. Her only true adornment was her posture—unbending, unapologetic.
The first camera flash caught them together—Leon Castellan and the woman no one had expected to see again.
And then the buzz started.
A ripple through the crowd, murmurs from lips trying to remember exactly how the story had ended last time.
But Aria didn't falter.
She slipped her hand through Leon's arm, her chin lifted just a little higher than strictly necessary.
Inside the ballroom, the lights were gold, the string quartet soft. Waiters passed with champagne, and the glittering crowd of London's elite stirred with the kind of tension that came from not knowing how to ask the questions they were all thinking.
Leon guided her toward the central gallery, nodding to familiar faces, donors, old allies.
He didn't introduce her.
He didn't need to.
Those who mattered already knew.
Those who didn't... would learn.
"Looks like you still own the room," he said softly as they paused near one of the gallery displays—photos from the pediatric cancer ward the foundation funded, names of children who had survived, a few who hadn't.
Aria's eyes lingered on one photograph of a girl no older than six, missing her hair but grinning with her entire face. "You built all this?" she murmured.
Leon's voice quieted. "In my name, maybe. But not alone."
She turned to him. "Does anyone here know what it took out of you?"
He didn't answer.
She didn't press.
Some truths didn't need repeating—not tonight.
The speeches began within the hour. Leon's name was called first.
As he moved to the stage, Aria found a quiet corner with a clear line of sight. For the first time, she didn't feel like she had to shrink to watch him shine.
Leon looked every inch the man the press thought they knew—elegant, composed, razor-sharp. But when he spoke, there was a quiet ache in his tone.
"Most of us don't choose our turning points," he said into the microphone. "They find us. Sometimes in joy. Sometimes in grief. But always with a choice—who do you become on the other side?"
A pause. A glance toward the back of the room—toward her.
"I stand here tonight with pride not because of the work I've done, but because of the people who made it worth doing."
The room hushed. Cameras caught the way his gaze softened just slightly before he returned to his notes.
When he stepped down, Aria was already waiting for him with a glass of champagne.
"Well," she said dryly, "that was subtle."
He smirked. "I didn't name you."
"You didn't need to."
A new song played as the band shifted into something slower.
Leon held out a hand. "May I?"
Aria hesitated only a second, then placed her hand in his.
They stepped onto the dance floor together, and time seemed to bend around them.
He pulled her close, fingertips gentle against the bare skin of her back.
"You've changed," she whispered.
"So have you."
"Do you still miss her?" she asked softly, looking up at him.
Leon didn't pretend not to understand. "Every now and then," he admitted. "But you're not her anymore. And I'm not him."
She nodded. "Good."
He twirled her once, then caught her again.
And just like that, the past gave way to the present. And the present, impossibly, began to feel like something they might be able to hold on to.
Not despite everything.But because of it.