Elina stood in front of her bathroom mirror, applying lipstick with the kind of precision that masked chaos. Her phone buzzed again—yet another news outlet praising "New York's golden couple" for their grace, their chemistry, their fairytale reunion.
If only they knew how much poison pulsed beneath the surface.
She glanced at the folder on the counter—the police report now fully opened, the initials D.S. glowing like a curse.
She wanted to confront him. Scream. Break something.
But not yet. Not until she was sure.
So she slipped on her heels, grabbed her clutch, and walked out the door with the confidence of a woman who hadn't just found out the man she was pretending to love may have destroyed her entire world.
---
Damon was already waiting in the town car when she slid in, flawless in black silk. He looked up from his phone and blinked.
"You look... stunning."
"Don't," she said flatly. "Save it for the cameras."
He leaned back, watching her. "You're tense."
"Because I'm sitting next to a liar," she said before she could stop herself.
He stiffened. "Excuse me?"
She caught herself, forced a smile. "Relax. Just playing the part."
But his eyes narrowed, studying her. "You're not a good liar, Elina."
"Neither are you," she murmured, turning to the window.
---
At the Art Exhibition
The gallery was minimalist and modern, filled with glass sculptures and overpriced wine. Photographers circled like flies.
Elina let Damon's hand rest on her waist, posed for pictures, smiled like it didn't kill her inside.
But her heart pounded every time she looked at him.
Did he know she was onto him? Was he just playing along? Did he even feel guilty?
They stepped into a quieter section of the gallery, near a sculpture of fractured glass—like something beautiful that had been broken and pieced back together. How fitting.
"I liked this one," Damon said, stopping beside her. "It reminds me of you."
Elina turned sharply. "Broken?"
"Strong," he said softly. "Even with cracks."
For a second, she forgot her rage.
Forgot the file. The accident. The lies.
Because when Damon looked at her like that—with regret and yearning and something dangerously close to love—she remembered the boy who had danced with her in the rain.
She stepped closer without meaning to.
So did he.
Their breath mingled. His hand brushed her arm. Her pulse raced.
"Why did you come back, Elina?" he whispered.
"To survive you," she whispered back.
And then—he kissed her.
Slow. Intentional. No cameras. No audience. Just them.
And to her horror… she kissed him back.
For a moment.
Then reality crashed in.
She pushed him away, breath shaking. "Don't ever do that again."
"Elina—"
"You don't get to touch me. You don't get to pretend like you didn't disappear. Like you didn't ruin my life."
The words hung heavy in the air. Damon's jaw tensed.
"I know I hurt you," he said quietly. "But you don't know everything."
Her eyes burned. "Maybe it's time you start talking."
He opened his mouth—then hesitated. And that silence told her everything.
"You're still lying," she said, backing away.
The cameras found them again moments later—smiles forced, hands linked.
But behind the perfect photo… Elina's heart was at war.
Because now she didn't just want answers.
She wanted the truth.
Even if it shattered everything.