The gala was exquisite.
Gleaming chandeliers dripped crystal light onto the high-gloss floor. The walls shimmered with pale gold wallpaper, and everywhere Eleanor looked, people in silk and sequins floated like elegant ghosts. Laughter chimed. Champagne poured. Cameras flashed. And at the center of it all stood her—a vision in midnight blue silk, shoulders bare, spine straight, gaze distant.
It was her night. The culmination of months of work. Her designs, her name, her legacy—every detail whispered Eleanor Whitmore.
And yet she'd never felt more hollow.
Because Daniel wasn't here.
And every face around her was a mask. Every compliment, rehearsed. Every handshake, strategic. And she'd once believed this was all she needed—status, applause, reverence.
Now it all felt like... noise.
"Eleanor, darling!" A voice broke through her thoughts—Dorian Wentworth, a London socialite with too-white teeth and champagne breath. "The gowns are divine. But where have you been hiding lately?"
"Hiding?" she asked, feigning polite curiosity.
"Well, rumor has it you've been seen sneaking about East London. Something about a studio? Very bohemian." His tone was teasing, but she could hear the bite beneath it.
She smiled coolly. "I wasn't aware my location needed public approval."
Dorian chuckled, but his eyes narrowed. "Just be careful, love. You've built an empire. Would be a shame to see it… shift."
Eleanor didn't reply. Instead, she turned away and moved toward the balcony, her breath tightening.
Outside, the air was cool. Sharp. Honest.
She leaned against the railing, the city lights shimmering below her like a promise. Her fingers gripped the stone edge, heart thudding in her chest.
And then—his voice.
"Nice view."
She froze.
Turned.
And there he was.
Daniel, in a tailored black suit, no tie, his shirt collar open. Casual but lethal. Understated and unforgettable.
"I didn't think you'd come," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
"I didn't think you'd want me to."
"I didn't. But I hoped you would."
He stepped beside her, close enough to touch but not yet touching. "You look like a goddess tonight."
She smiled faintly. "And you look like temptation. Again."
He laughed softly. "What are we doing, Eleanor?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I think I'd like to stop pretending I don't care."
Daniel reached out, his hand grazing hers. "Then don't pretend."
Their fingers intertwined, slow, deliberate.
For a moment, the city disappeared. The gala vanished. It was just the two of them beneath the stars, connected by something no crowd could touch.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Anywhere."
She hesitated. "I can't just walk out. It's my event."
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You already did."
---
They didn't speak much in the cab.
Her hand rested on his thigh. His thumb traced circles across her palm.
By the time they reached the studio, the silence had turned electric.
He opened the door and pulled her inside like he'd done the first time—but this time, there was no uncertainty. No resistance.
Only need.
He pushed her against the door, kissed her like the world might end, and this—this—was the only thing worth saving. She gasped into his mouth as he lifted her, carried her across the floor, and laid her down on the couch, silk pooling beneath her like a second skin.
Her gown slid from her shoulders.
His jacket dropped to the floor.
And in the dim candlelight, they undressed one another slowly—not with urgency, but reverence.
"Tell me something true," he whispered against her neck.
"I'm scared of falling for you," she confessed.
He stilled.
Then pulled back, meeting her eyes. "Then fall."
And she did.
---
Afterward, they lay together, limbs tangled, skin slick, hearts pounding.
Daniel stroked her hair. "Tell me more."
"About what?"
"About you. The parts no one sees."
She stared at the ceiling, voice soft. "I used to dream of being famous. Revered. Untouchable. Then I got there and realized I was… alone. I created this life, this brand, this image—but I lost myself in the process."
Daniel kissed her shoulder. "I know the feeling."
She looked at him. "You?"
"I used to shoot war zones," he said quietly. "Then one day, I stopped seeing people and only saw stories. I left because I realized I didn't want to document pain anymore. I wanted to feel again."
Her fingers brushed his jaw. "And do you?"
"With you? Every second."
Tears welled in her eyes. She didn't blink them away.
"I don't want this to end after tonight," she whispered.
"Then don't let it."
"You said no promises."
He cupped her face. "Then I'm breaking my own rules."
She kissed him again—slow, deep, and certain.
The rules had changed.
And so had they.