The master suite was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a vintage clock that Silas probably couldn't even see.
Elara didn't go to her room. She stayed, just as he'd asked. She sat on the edge of the charcoal-gray bed, watching Silas as he sat in an armchair by the window, staring out at a moon he could likely only perceive as a pale smudge in the sky.
"You don't have to tell me," Elara said softly, breaking the tension. "About the frames. I know it's personal."
Silas didn't move for a long time. Then, he stood up and walked toward the largest empty frame on the wall—the one that sat directly above the fireplace.
"My mother was an artist," he said, his voice devoid of its usual steel. "Not a restorer like you. She was a creator. She saw colors that didn't exist in the real world. She used to say that the world was too dull, so she had to paint over it."
Elara leaned forward, captivated. "What happened to her paintings?"
"My father," Silas spat the word. "When the diagnosis first came—when the doctors told him that his heir, his 'perfect' son, was going to go blind—he lost his mind. He didn't see a son; he saw a broken investment. He blamed her 'weak' genes."
Silas turned to face her, his eyes hollow. "He burned them. Every single one. He told me that if I couldn't see beauty, I didn't deserve to have it around me. He said a Vane only looks at what is useful. So, he left me with these." He gestured to the empty gold frames. "Reminders of what happens when you let yourself care about something that can be taken away."
Elara felt a lump in her throat. The "Vulture" wasn't born cold; he was frozen by a father who treated him like a faulty machine.
She stood up and walked over to him. She didn't stop until she was inches away, her hand reaching out to touch the empty space inside the frame.
"He was wrong, Silas."
"Was he? Look at me, Elara. I'm losing the world bit by bit. Every morning I wake up and the fog is thicker. He was right. Why surround myself with ghosts?"
"Because you're still here," Elara whispered. She grabbed his hand—the one that had been tracing the wood—and pressed it to her own cheek. "I'm not a ghost. This isn't a charcoal sketch. I'm real."
Silas's breath hitched. His fingers were trembling as they traced the line of her cheek, the bridge of her nose, the curve of her lips. He was "seeing" her the only way he had left.
"You're warm," he breathed, his voice breaking.
"I have an idea," she said, a spark of her old, defiant self returning. "I'm a restorer. I can't bring back your mother's paintings, Silas. But I can fill these frames. Not with paint. With something you can't lose."
"And what's that?"
"Texture. Memory. Life." She looked around the room. "Tomorrow, we're going to my studio. I'm going to teach you how to see with your hands. We're going to fill these frames with things that don't require light to be beautiful."
Silas stared at her—or where he thought she was. For the first time, the predatory CEO was gone. In his place was a man who looked like he had just been handed a lifeline in a storm.
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. "Why are you helping me? The debt is already being paid. Marcus is gone for now. You could just enjoy the luxury."
"Because," Elara said, her voice a soft, steady promise. "I realized something today when the lights went out. I don't want to be your eyes, Silas. I want to be the reason you're not afraid of the dark."
He didn't answer with words. He pulled her into a kiss that was slow, deep, and filled with a desperate kind of hope. It wasn't a "contract" kiss. It was the sound of a heart finally starting to thaw.
But outside, in the hallway, a phone vibrated.
[NEW MESSAGE TO MARCUS VANE: "I have the medical records. The condition is terminal. He's blind within the month. Proceed with the coup."]
The traitor wasn't a rival. The traitor was inside the house.