Elena Sterling
The party was exactly what my family loved—grand, polished, loud in all the ways wealth tried to be warmth.
Crystal lights hung like constellations over the garden, laughter spilling from every corner, old family friends, business partners, people who knew my name but not my silences. Glasses clinked. Music played softly, something classical pretending not to be background noise.
I wore black.
A tailored suit, sharp lines, no tie. I didn't need one. The fabric hugged my shoulders like it belonged there, like I belonged here again.
People kept telling me I looked different—stronger, colder, successful. I smiled when they said it. Let them think that was the whole story.
I laughed with my cousins, let Lucas throw an arm around my shoulder like we were still reckless teenagers sneaking out past midnight. Someone mentioned my achievements abroad. Someone else joked about marriage.
I nodded. Smiled. Played my part.
Then—
everything stopped.
Not gradually. Not softly.
Stopped.
She stood near the far end of the hallway window, half-shadowed by the marble pillars, moonlight brushing her like it had been waiting six years just for this moment.
Isabella Kane.
The world narrowed to her.
She was still beautiful—no, more than that. Not the bright, carefree beauty I remembered, but something quieter. Gentler. Like a lake that had learned how to hide its depth. Her dark blue dress clung to her frame, long sleeves covering her arms, the fabric hugging her like it was protecting her from something.
She looked thinner.
Smaller.
But when she lifted her face and our eyes met—
those green eyes—
I was nineteen again.
I was ruined again.
My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my heart. I forgot how to move. Forgot how to blink. Every sound around me blurred into nothing.
She froze too.
Just for a second.
Like the universe had paused to ask us both the same question:
Is this real?
Then her lips parted slightly, and I knew.
She saw me.
Not Elena Sterling, CEO, returned heir.
Just me.
I crossed the distance without thinking. My feet moved before my brain caught up, and suddenly she was right there, close enough that I could see the faint tremble in her hands.
"Isabella," I breathed.
I didn't give her time to step back. I wrapped my arms around her, pulled her into me like I had been doing it my whole life—because I had.
She was warm. Fragile. Real.
I buried my face in her hair, and the scent hit me like a memory I didn't know I was still surviving on.
Lavender.
The same damn lavender.
My chest tightened painfully.
That scent had always calmed me, even when the world burned. Even now.
For a heartbeat, she didn't move.
And panic whispered—What if I'm too late?
Then her arms came up slowly, hesitantly, wrapping around my waist like she was afraid I might disappear if she held too tight.
"You're back," she whispered.
Her voice cracked me open.
I nodded against her hair. "I'm here. I'm back, Isabella."
She pulled back just enough to look at me, her hands coming up to cup my face, fingers trembling like she was touching a ghost.
"You've changed," she said softly.
"So have you," I replied.
Before we could say anything else, before the past could fully crash into the present, someone collided with us from the side.
"Elena!" Alia's voice rang out, bright and
unapologetic. I hate that about her.
She threw her arms around both of us, squeezing like boundaries had never existed in her vocabulary. "Oh my God, you're really here. I swear, if this is a dream—"
"Alia," I laughed, hugging her back. "Still the same. Still no sense of personal space."
She grinned. "And you still love me."
Lucas joined us, standing close like he was silently guarding the moment. For a brief second, it felt like childhood again—four kids against the world, unaware of how cruel time could be.
Then my mother appeared, greeting Isabella warmly, her tone polite, affectionate, practiced. I noticed how Isabella's shoulders stiffened just a little. How her smile became careful.
Moments later, Isabella excused herself.
She moved toward the balcony.
And without hesitation, I followed.
The noise of the party faded as I stepped outside. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of flowers and stone and something unsaid.
She stood at the railing, moonlight painting her in silver. The dress hugged her perfectly, the deep blue making her skin glow softly. She looked… untouchable. Like a memory someone had wrapped in silk.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she broke the silence. "I didn't know you were coming."
"I wanted it to be a surprise."
Her lips curved faintly. "You were always bad at staying away."
I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. "I tried to call you."
Her fingers tightened around the railing.
"I wrote," I continued quietly. "Messages. Emails. Letters."
"I know."
That single word hit harder than silence.
I stepped closer, careful, like she might flinch. "Then why didn't you answer?"
She didn't look at me. "Some pasts don't like being reopened."
Something cold settled in my stomach.
"You disappeared," I said, my voice low. "And no one would tell me why."
She finally turned to face me, and for a second, the mask cracked.
Pain flashed through her eyes—raw, deep, quickly buried.
"Some stories," she said gently, "aren't mine to tell at parties."
I swallowed. "Are you… happy?"
The question hung between us, heavy and dangerous.
She hesitated. Just a fraction too long.
"I'm surviving," she replied.
That was worse than any answer.
A laugh echoed from inside the mansion, loud and careless. Isabella stepped back, placing distance between us again, the walls rebuilding themselves.
"I should go," she said softly.
I nodded, even though everything in me screamed not to let her leave.
As she walked away, I noticed it.
The way her sleeves never shifted.
The way she held herself—guarded, controlled.
And I understood one thing with terrifying clarity:
She was the same.
But she wasn't untouched.
And whatever had happened in the six years I was gone…
it had left scars I hadn't earned the right to see yet.