Eleanor's penthouse had never felt so quiet.
She stood before her vanity, staring at the mirror. Her reflection looked the same—sleek chignon, deep emerald blouse, subtle red lip—but something beneath the surface had shifted. Her skin was the same. Her gaze was not.
It was the first time in years that she wasn't sure who the woman staring back truly was.
On the counter lay the invitation to the upcoming Royal Fashion Council's Gala of Excellence. She was being honored. A lifetime achievement award, the youngest recipient in its history. Headlines had already declared her the "Empress of Elegance."
But Eleanor had never felt further from the title.
Because none of them had seen her crying on a rooftop, naked in Daniel's arms, stripped down to the soul.
Her phone buzzed.
Clara: "Eleanor, I just saw the London Pulse. Are you okay?"
Her heart skipped.
She clicked the link Clara had sent.
There, splashed across the top of the page:
> "WHITMORE'S SECRET LOVER—DESIGNER SPOTTED WITH UNKNOWN MAN IN EAST LONDON STUDIO"
The grainy photo was unmistakable.
Her. In Daniel's doorway.
His hand on her hip.
Her lips parted in mid-laugh.
The angle was voyeuristic—taken from across the street, a long lens, too clear to be coincidental.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
Scrolling down, she saw speculations about who he was, mentions of him being an "American outsider," and whispers questioning her stability, her "recent reclusiveness," and whether she was fit to lead the upcoming season.
It wasn't just gossip.
It was calculated sabotage.
She sank into the vanity stool, hands trembling.
Then came another buzz.
Unknown Number: "Is this the image your brand is built on? Might want to remember who made you, Eleanor."
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
She knew that tone.
Dorian.
The industry loved a queen—but it loved watching one fall even more.
---
Later that evening, she stood outside Daniel's studio, rain misting through the air, her trench coat pulled tight around her.
He opened the door almost immediately, eyes scanning her face.
"You saw it," he said.
She nodded, stepping inside, jaw set.
"I didn't tell anyone," he added. "I swear."
"I know," she replied. "But someone was watching us."
He closed the door. "What do you want to do?"
Eleanor hesitated.
Then: "I don't know."
Daniel approached her, cupping her face. "We can disappear. Leave London. Go somewhere quiet. France. Italy. Wherever you want."
She shook her head. "I can't run, Daniel. If I do, they win. They'll say I'm unstable, emotional, distracted. That I cracked under pressure."
He studied her. "And if you stay?"
"I lose something else." She looked into his eyes. "You."
Daniel looked away, jaw tightening. "I don't want to be your weakness, Eleanor."
"You're not," she whispered. "You're my truth."
He reached into his camera bag, pulled out a thin folder, and handed it to her.
"What's this?"
"My application portfolio. For the Whitmore Artist Grant. I submitted it two years ago. Got rejected."
She opened it. Stunning images spilled out—gritty, real, passionate.
"These are incredible," she said, surprised.
Daniel shrugged. "Your board said I didn't 'match the aesthetic of the brand.'"
She stared at him.
"I didn't know," she said quietly.
"You weren't meant to," he replied. "But here we are."
There it was.
The crack in the mirror.
Her company had dismissed him before she even met him—and now he had her heart.
She closed the folder, stepping close. "Do you hate me for it?"
"I should," he said. "But I don't."
She rested her forehead against his. "Then let me fix this."
He looked into her eyes. "How?"
She smiled faintly. "By being louder than the noise."
---
The next morning, Eleanor arrived at her boutique before sunrise.
She summoned Clara and her PR manager.
"I'm going public," she said.
Clara blinked. "Public about…?"
"About him. About me." Her voice was calm, steady. "I'm tired of pretending I'm something I'm not."
Her PR manager wrung her hands. "Eleanor, this could damage your legacy—"
"Then let it," she cut in. "I'd rather be destroyed as myself than praised as someone else."
Clara stared at her, then slowly nodded. "Then let's do it right."
By noon, her social media account posted a simple caption alongside a black-and-white photograph of her and Daniel—taken by Daniel, intimate but not explicit, her head resting against his shoulder.
> "I built a life wrapped in silk and silence. Then I met a man who saw me through both. This is me. No filters. No shame. —E.W."
The internet exploded.
Some praised her.
Some called it unprofessional.
Some accused her of losing her mind.
But she didn't care.
Because when Daniel arrived at the boutique that afternoon—flowers in hand, hesitation in his step—Eleanor ran into his arms.
And it felt like coming home.