The moon hung low over the city, casting silver threads across the marble terrace of the Blackwell estate. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom below, but up here the night felt like it belonged to only two people.
Elena rested her hands on the cold stone railing. The laughter from the party below had long since faded, leaving behind a silence that was almost too intimate. The scent of roses from the garden mingled with the sea breeze, wrapping around her like a ghost of memory.
Behind her, footsteps echoed—measured, deliberate. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“Running away from your own celebration?” Damian’s voice was a low ripple in the dark.
“I needed air,” Elena murmured, keeping her gaze on the horizon. “I couldn’t breathe down there.”
He came to stand beside her,
