Our secret sin

Chapter 2: The Distance Between

Sunset draped the Blackwood estate in gold and shadow. The sky melted into soft hues of rose and lavender, and the warm light clung to everything it touched like a last embrace before darkness fell. It should have been peaceful. It wasn’t. Inside, the low clatter of dishes and the crackling notes of an old jazz record drifted out through the French doors. The music was soft, nostalgic his mother’s favorite. The silence pressed in, tense and waiting. Or maybe he was.

She was upstairs.

Aria. He never imagined she’d show up like this. Not stunning in a way that left him speechless. The girl who used to trail after him with sketchbooks and questions had turned into something else entirely sharp, soft, and impossible to ignore.

He took another sip of wine, trying to focus on the movement of lavender swaying gently in the breeze. But all he could see was her in the garden, her voice, the light pressure of her fingers curled around his. That moment hadn’t left him.

It lingered, refusing to loosen its hold.

She unsettled him in a way nothing ever had not the markets, not war rooms, not boardroom betrayals. Nothing in his carefully controlled world prepared him for Aria Monroe grown into herself. And looking at him like she saw the cracks he thought he’d buried.

A soft creak behind him broke the spell.

A blanket was draped loosely over her shoulders, and her sketchbook was tucked under one arm. Her hair was down now, cascading in wild waves over her collarbone, still damp from a shower, catching the fading sunlight like threads of silk.

She paused when she saw him, then smiled small, secretive, like something just for him.

I figured I’d find you out here. Elias smiled faintly, Old habit She padded across the stone, barefoot again, and curled up in the wicker lounge across from him. Her legs tucked beneath her with ease, the blanket slipping to reveal the smooth line of her shoulder.

Mind if I draw while we talk? she asked, already flipping open her sketchbook.He shook his head. Go ahead.But it was hard to look away from her.Everything about her felt easy and familiar, yet utterly unfamiliar at the same time. Like hearing a song he used to love, now played in a different key.

What are you drawing? “Faces. Moods,” she murmured, sketching softly. Emotions that don’t know how to speak for themselves.

Therapy with a pencil? He asked, a hint of amusement.Exactly.She smiled without looking up. People carry things on their faces. Even when they think they’re hiding it.

He watched her for a moment, quietly.

You always were good at seeing people.

That made her pause. Her eyes rose to his, quietly searching.

I saw you, even back then. Did you know that?

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He looked away.

Silence drifted between them, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like something was building like a tide slowly rising around them.

I missed this place,she said after a while. Didn’t think I would. But it feels like I never left.

Elias nodded, eyes still on the garden.

It’s the same. Maybe too much the same, not everything is. Her voice was quiet, but the words held weight. He knew what she meant. He knew the truth she wasn’t voicing. But he didn’t answer. Couldn’t touch that thread yet. Your parents are really in France? he asked instead, forcing the shift. She nodded. Three weeks. Artist retreat. They wanted me to come, but…she shrugged. I needed space.

So you came here?

It always made sense to me. This house. These gardens.” She looked up again. You.

He felt the words settle between them, heavier than the heat in the air.

He drained the last of his wine, needing something to do with his hands. I drew something last night, she said, reaching for her sketchbook. I wasn’t sure if I should show you, but…She flipped through a few pages, then turned it around to face him. It was him. Sitting in the study window. His elbows rested on his knees. His face was shadowed and solemn, eyes cast downward. She’d caught everything the tension in his shoulders, the weight in his posture, even the small scar above his right brow.

He stared at it.

You remember that? he asked, Of course. Her voice was soft. You got it falling off your bike. You didn’t cry, but you looked at me like you wanted to. A quiet laugh slipped out, heavy with restraint. You notice everything, don’t you? Just the things that matter. Elias set the sketchbook down carefully beside him, unsure what to do with the tightness in his throat.

I don’t want to make things weird, she said suddenly. I just wanted you to know… I’ve always seen you, even when you thought no one did. He stood abruptly, walking a few paces away, toward the edge of the terrace.

Aria…She stood too. The blanket slipped slightly down her arm. I’m not a kid anymore, she said gently, voice just above a whisper. He turned to face her, I know. They stood still in the thick dusk, the silence loud between them. His heart beat like a drum against the inside of his chest, and hers, though she didn’t show it, was pounding just the same.

She stepped forward. Just a little. I never forgot you, Elias. He swallowed hard. You shouldn’t say things like that. Why? Her voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t tremble either. Because it’s true?

Another beat. Another breath.

Then, carefully like the moment might shatter she reached for his hand.

Their fingers brushed.

It was the smallest contact. The gentlest touch.

But it sparked like fire on dry grass.

Elias didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

The world was shrinking around them, the night folding in, and for a moment, it felt like the universe had gone still like everything had been waiting for this breath between them.

Then, slowly, as if afraid to break whatever had just formed, she stepped back and let go.

Goodnight, she whispered.

He didn’t move.

“Goodnight.”

She turned and slipped back into the house, the sketchbook pressed to her chest, her shadow trailing behind her like a secret. Elias stood alone in the dark, hands in his pockets, staring at the place where she’d stood. And for the first time in years, he wondered what it would feel like to stop pretending he didn’t want more.