Then came the sound, metal screeching, tires clawing at wet asphalt.
The world jerked sideways. Headlights flared, blinding.
A black limo whirled through the intersection, crashed into the curb, rolled once, twice, and the glass shattered like rain. The sound was so piercing it appeared to rip the air apart. Screams were coming from different directions. One drink accidentally spilled on the floor when a person lost their grip.
Elara was alive for one second, then frozen. But her instinct was already there; it was like a switch was activated.
She ran towards the car. Black and thick smoke was coming out of the hood. The driver gasped and stumbled through the car, taking his words one after another that could not be understood by the lady. On the pavement, partially in the light of the streetlamp, lay a man, still, blood running down his forehead, his white shirt torn off.
He looked unreal. Like a painting knocked off a wall.
Elara fell beside him on her knees, her fingers trying to find a pulse.
There, faint, but there.
"Call an ambulance, someone!" she yelled, her voice was higher than she had ever heard it. Her hands shook, but she pressed down all the same. Rhythm. Focus.
"Don't die, please." She whispered
The asphalt was rough against her knees, and gasoline and fear filled the air. Everything around her was out of focus.
Then… a cough.
He breathed hard, pulling in a breath, choking, and seeming to be in pain. His eyes were wide open, stormy gray and fiery, full of bewilderment and agony. He looked at her for a moment. All, the sound, the fear, the lights, ceased utterly.
"Who...?" The syllable was almost a whisper, dragged out with difficulty through the noise around.
"Don't move," Elara said, trying to sound calm. "Rescue is on its way."
The sirens became deafening, and the red and blue lights started flashing mercilessly amid the destruction.
Medics stormed in, yelling orders. A stretcher fell to the ground with a noise. However, before they could even reach him, phones were already out.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
A voice rose over the noise: "That's Julian Thorne!"
Elara blinked, disoriented. Another voice, female, sharp, excited: "Oh my God, someone's filming this! That girl's saving him!"
And just like that, everything changed.
Dozens of phones pointed at her. People were snapping pictures, recording, narrating. Someone even crouched low to get a better angle.
Elara's pulse spiked. "Stop filming!" she shouted, shielding his face with her arm. But no one listened.
Someone yelled, "She pulled him out of the car!" Another, "Is that his girlfriend?"
The medics shoved through, finally taking over. Elara backed up, panting, and her gown was left with dirt and blood traces.
Julian's head hung down as they carried him to the stretcher. His eyes opened again, somewhere between asleep and awake, next to the disorder, and then he spotted her. For one heartbeat, he gazed at her as if trying to imprint her face in his memory before everything else went out.
The cameras caught it. Every flash. Every look.
And then she arrived.
A black car rolled to a stop beside the wreck, and the crowd parted without a word.
Eleanor Thorne stepped out, tall, graceful, terrifying. Her emerald silk gown shimmered under the flashing lights, diamonds cutting like blades.
The reporters knew her instantly. "Mrs. Thorne! Over here! Is that your son?"
She ignored them. Each of her steps was calculated, the sound of her heels resonating like gunshots on the hard surface.
Initially, her gaze settled on Julian - pale, delicate, and encircled by medical personnel. Afterward, she looked at Elara.
"You," she whispered with a voice that was silky but so frigid that it could freeze air. "You were the one who assisted him."
Elara gave a silent acknowledgment, her heart racing. "Right, the doctor. He was not breathing, so I…"
"You helped him." There was no change in the volume of Eleanor's voice. It didn't need to.
Eleanor glanced at the crowd of flashing cameras, and her expression hardened. "This spectacle cannot continue," she said to one of the men beside her, a tall figure in black who had appeared like a shadow. "Sterling, handle it."
Sterling barked at the security team, and for a moment, the crowd was pushed back. But it was too late, the footage was already everywhere.
Eleanor turned back to Elara, her gaze unflinching. "We'll be in touch," she said, almost gently. "You've done something… substantial tonight."
It didn't sound like praise. It sounded like a warning.
Elara felt like saying "Please don't be in touch", but her voice could not get the message across.
Eleanor was already walking toward the ambulance. The medics were putting Julian inside, his face colorless, the monitors beeping steadily now. Eleanor was walking behind, stopping for a moment just to look into Elara's eyes before disappearing.
It wasn't a thank-you. It was a calculation.
Then the doors slammed shut. The ambulance sped away, with the sirens screaming in the dark.
Julian, Inside the Gala
Julian Thorne was no stranger to charity balls; he could predict all the same things: familiar benefactors, the same clapping, and so on, nothing but the same empty compliments covered as benevolence. The light from the chandeliers was bright; the orchestra was loud; and all the talks sounded like negotiations veiled in laughter.
He had been in that spot for about an hour, with a glass in his hand and answering the so-called questions that weren't such. What about the Thorne Foundation this year? Are you going to be the one soon? Each word was like a metal scraper to him. The heir. The golden boy. The next Thorne. He felt the burden of the title digging into his back like a bruise.
Across the ballroom, his mother floated through the crowd with a politician's grace. "Smile, Julian," she murmured as she passed, never breaking stride. He obeyed. He always did.
He scanned the room out of habit, half-listening to the droning speeches, and his gaze snagged on someone near the back. She wasn't glittering or laughing. She was still watching everything like she didn't belong, but refused to hide. A plain dress, hair pinned loosely, eyes focused and alive. For a moment, he almost forgot the music.
Then someone clapped him on the shoulder, another donor, another empty toast. When he looked back, she'd already turned away.
He took a slow sip of champagne. It tasted like nothing. Like all of it, wealth, the walls, the endless charade, had lost its flavor years ago.
Somewhere between one laugh and the next, Julian decided he'd leave early. Just slip out, take the car, and breathe something that wasn't recycled air and expectation. A small rebellion, invisible, but his.
Julian quietly made his way out of the side exit and, with a nod to the security guard who was pretending not to see the weariness behind his smile, walked past him. The night atmosphere was good, though the smell of the perfume and champagne was still there. There was a moment when he stood there, rain splashing on his suit, the city lights dancing in the water, and he breathed heavily.
His chauffeur, Bennett, was already in the limousine. "Was it a long night, sir?" the man inquired.
Julian responded with a faint smile of exhaustion. "A lifetime compressed into three hours." He opened the back seat, at the same time letting out a big breath as the door was closing. It was unbelievably quiet inside the car; it was like heaven. No conversations, no camera flashes, and nobody expected anything from him. Only the engine's low sound and the drops of rain dancing on the glass accompanied the silence.
He looked out the window, the marble facade of the Foundation blurred by rain. He thought briefly of his mother inside, still shaking hands, still orchestrating perfection. The family image was safe for another night.
Bennett turned left onto the main road. The tires hissed over slick asphalt. Julian leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, watching the city smear by. Then a sound tore through the calm: tires screaming, too close.
"Bennett?" he said, sitting forward.
A horn blared. Headlights burst through the rain. The driver shouted something, but Julian never heard the words. The impact hit from the side, violent and immediate. The world twisted. Glass exploded. His shoulder slammed the door, then air and weightlessness swallowed everything.
The seat belt snapped. A moment later, the cold air of the night took the place of the car's warmth. He hit the ground hard, rolling, something sharp tearing at his arm. For a moment, he couldn't tell which way was up; the universe around him was a spinning wheel of light, sound, and rain.
He was stopped by cold asphalt. He was not sure if he was still breathing for a second. He attempted to move, but pain would not let him. The smell of burning and blood came in with his inhale. The world was fluctuating in and out of his sight. From amongst the noise, a voice broke through, demanding, firm, and not letting him go. "Stay with me! Someone call for an ambulance!"
Hands pressed against his chest. Every compression was like a lifeline, helping him back from the brink. He coughed, and it was one strong shudder that made his throat hurt. Air made its way back in. He saw the rain and sirens and a person hovering over him, pallid, resolute, and with eyes reflecting something fierce. "Who…" The word came out as a whisper, almost non-existent. Her hand stopped for a moment. "Don't move," she said in a gentle voice. "Help is on the way." The lights blinked for a short time, blue, red, blue, red, and Julian's surroundings slowly merged into the dark quietness again.