Chapter 2
951 Words
Elena’s heels echoed like gunfire on the marble floor as she left the penthouse suite, each step sharp and defiant—yet beneath her confident stride, her chest was tight with everything she didn’t say.
The doors of the private elevator closed behind her with a soft hiss. The mirrored walls inside reflected her—smudged red lipstick, tousled waves, the slight tremble in her fingertips. It wasn’t the cold that made her shiver.
It was him.
Jaxon Vale.
His kiss still scorched her lips. His scent—dark leather, expensive whiskey, and danger—still clung to her skin like heat she couldn’t shake.
She reached out and pressed her hand flat against the cool mirror, closing her eyes.
You’re weak for him, a voice inside her whispered. Still. After everything.
She hated that voice almost as much as she hated the truth it carried.
He’d told her tonight he still didn’t trust her.
And he was right to say it.
Because there were things Elena had buried—memories, lies, regrets—that she wasn’t ready to dig up. Not yet.
But Rome… Rome refused to stay buried.
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Eight months earlier — Rome, Italy.
The scent of orange blossoms mingled with perfume and champagne in the night air. Laughter echoed along the marble corridors of the Villa Medici, where the most powerful names in fashion gathered beneath glittering chandeliers and Roman arches.
It was supposed to be just another afterparty. A blur of flirtation, stolen glances, and too many cocktails.
But then she saw him.
Jaxon Vale, standing alone on the edge of the terrace, dressed in a midnight-blue tuxedo that made him look like sin carved from marble. He held a crystal glass loosely in one hand, eyes scanning the crowd with silent judgment.
Their eyes met. And the world seemed to go very still.
Elena remembered how her breath caught, how every cell in her body reacted to him before her mind could.
She didn’t believe in fate—but whatever force had drawn them together that night felt bigger than coincidence.
When she approached, she didn’t speak. Neither did he.
Not at first.
He simply handed her his drink, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Taste it,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “Tell me if it’s better than me.”
She sipped. Never looked away.
“It’s colder,” she said. “Less dangerous.”
He laughed. “Then I’ll order another.”
That night, they didn’t play by the rules.
They talked. For hours.
About childhoods spent chasing perfection. About parents who loved power more than people. About the loneliness of always being watched, always performing, always being beautiful and unreachable.
She told him about the scar on her hip, the one no photographer had ever captured. He told her about the first time he got drunk at thirteen, just to feel something.
When the world finally blurred around them, they left together—silent, reckless.
His suite at Hotel Eden overlooked the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in gold. Their clothes fell off between kisses, tossed across velvet chairs and marble floors.
It wasn’t just s*x.
It was possession. Desperation. Two broken people trying to lose themselves in someone else’s skin.
He touched her like he was learning her from memory. She whispered his name like a prayer.
And when it was over, they didn’t speak. They just lay there—skin against skin, breath against breath, watching dawn spill over ancient buildings like the gods were still watching.
She remembered the moment he brushed hair from her face and said quietly:
> “You don’t scare easily.”
“You do,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“Because I think you could actually break me.”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he kissed her collarbone and murmured, “Not if I break first.”
But the next morning, she was gone.
No note. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of jasmine on the sheets, and silence.
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Present — Manhattan.
Elena stepped out of the elevator into the cool marble lobby, past the doorman who knew her by name but never by heart.
Outside, the Manhattan night was electric. Cars zipped past, horns blaring. Somewhere, a couple laughed too loudly. The world kept turning.
But Elena… she was spiraling.
She walked briskly to the waiting black car. The driver opened the door without question, and she slid in.
Her phone buzzed. A message.
Unknown Number:
You shouldn’t have walked away.
Not again.
Her heart stilled.
Jaxon.
Of course he had her number. Of course he still knew how to pierce through every wall she’d built.
She stared at the message, thumbs hovering over the screen. Part of her wanted to reply. Part of her wanted to delete him, block the number, forget he ever existed.
But forgetting Jaxon Vale was like trying to forget how to breathe.
She looked out the window. The city passed in a blur. But all she could see was Rome. That night. That promise.
One he made with his hands and mouth and voice.
And one she had broken before the sun came up.
She whispered to the night, barely audible, “You said I was different.”
She turned her face toward the glass and let her breath fog the window. The weight of truth sat heavy in her chest.
You don’t know what I had to give up, she thought. You don’t know why I left.
But he would find out.
Soon.
Because the past didn’t stay dead forever.
And the promise they once made—naked and whispered in the dark—was about to rise again.
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- Writer
