Three years after the gala’s seismic unravelling, the city loft had become more than a home—it was a living testament to their triumph, a space where scars were celebrated as art. The late September light poured through the windows, gilding the open beams and the eclectic mix of Elara’s sketches and Julian’s curated relics: a framed auction paddle from that fateful night, a small canvas from Voss’s latest exhibit, and Frostfire itself, still reigning over the mantle, its flames and frost a quiet hymn to their past. Outside, the city hummed with its endless pulse, but within, time softened, each moment a brushstroke on their shared canvas.
Elara stood at the kitchen island, her sketchpad open to a new design—a community centre inspired by her father’s redemption, its lines echoing the esta
