The 50th Goodbye

Chapter 4

Terms of Engagement

The applause faded, replaced by the hum of voices and clinking glasses.

Dorian stepped off the small stage, cutting through the crowd like the space rearranged itself to make room for him.

His eyes never shifted away from hers.

Elara considered walking away before he reached her, I mean, it was better to leave than give him the satisfaction but her feet wouldn’t move.

When he stopped in front of her, the air between them tightened.

“You look like you’re about to run, what are you planning?” he murmured.

“Can’t you just leave me alone? You look like you’re about to ruin my evening,” she replied, keeping her tone flat.

His mouth curved, though his eyes stayed hard. “That depends. Is seeing me still capable of ruining your evening?”

Before she could answer, a passing photographer lifted his camera. Dorian’s hand slid lightly to the small of her back.

“Smile,” he said under his breath.

Her body stiffened, but she turned toward the camera with a practiced expression she hadn’t worn in months.

The flash went off, freezing the image: Dorian Ashworth, tuxedoed perfection, and Elara Vance, poised but tense beside him.

As soon as the photographer moved on, she stepped out of his reach. “Don’t use me for your PR.”

“You’re the one who showed up to my event wearing my gift,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the necklace.

“My project’s client is here,” she shot back. “I’m here for work, not for you.”

“Then I’ll make this easy,” he said, his voice filled with something quieter, and more dangerous. “We should discuss the Seabreeze Project. Now.” He said and she nodded.

He guided her toward a quieter alcove off the ballroom, the space lined with French doors overlooking the garden.

It wasn’t lost on her that this was still public enough for them to be seen, but private enough for the conversation to turn sharp.

“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” he began.

“I’ve been avoiding you,” she corrected.

“And yet here you are.”

“I told you,” she said. “Business.”

He took a step closer, and she caught a faint trace of his cologne, dark cedar and something sharper, the scent that used to cling to her pillow after he’d been there.

“Then let’s talk business,” he said. “The Foundation’s board is reviewing all redevelopment contracts. If you want to keep Seabreeze…”

Her jaw tightened. “You’ll have to threaten me harder than that, Dorian. I’ve already had enough of your conditions.”

“I’m not threatening you,” he said smoothly. “I’m offering you stability. In exchange, I want…” whatever he was about to say was cut off by a voice behind them.

“Dorian. Elara.”

They both turned to see Michael Carrington, the rival developer she’d spoken to earlier, standing with a champagne flute and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said, as if that were a casual thing. “If Ashworth Corp is planning to drop your contract, Elara, I’d be happy to step in.”

Dorian’s expression chilled instantly. “Carrington, this is a private conversation.”

Michael ignored him, directing his attention to Elara. “I’ve been watching your work for a while. You’d be a great fit for my firm. And unlike some people…” He glanced at Dorian, “ahm… I don’t mix personal grudges with business.”

It was bait, and she knew it. But the part that stung most was the flash of possessive anger in Dorian’s eyes, like she was something that could be stolen.

Before she could respond, Isla’s voice cut through the hum of the gala.

“Oh, there you are,” she said sweetly, joining them. “Dorian, the press is asking about the announcement. Should I tell them you’ll make it now?”

“What announcement?” Elara asked.

Dorian’s gaze didn’t move from hers. “Ashworth Corp is partnering with Rowe Industries on the Harborline redevelopment.”

Her stomach dropped. Harborline was the direct competitor to her Seabreeze Project if this went through, her client would pull funding, assuming she’d been compromised by her connection to Dorian.

“You’re undercutting me.”

“It’s business,” he said, echoing the words she’d heard on the phone yesterday.

She almost laughed. “You’ve perfected that excuse. Well, enjoy your party.” She didn't say anymore but just as she was about to walk out tension fractured when a murmur rippled through the crowd, spreading toward them like a wave.

Lydia appeared at her elbow, her eyes wide. “You need to see this,” she whispered, showing her phone.

On the screen was a gossip site headline:

ASHWORTH HEIR ANNOUNCES SEPARATION, SEEN REUNITING WITH FORMER FIANCÉE ISLA ROWE

The article was timestamped twenty minutes ago with a photo from tonight’s gala of Dorian and Isla standing close on the staircase, his head inclined toward hers. The caption claimed he’d “confirmed” the end of his marriage in conversation with donors.

Elara looked up slowly. “Congratulations. Your PR is working overtime.”

“I never said that,” Dorian said, his voice clipped.

“You didn’t have to,” Isla chimed in, her eyes bright with triumph.

---

For the rest of the evening, Elara stayed near her client, but she could feel Dorian’s presence at the edges of the room.

When she finally decided to leave, she found him waiting by the exit.

“You believe that article?” He asked.

“I believe what I see,” she said, brushing past him but his hand closed around her wrist not painfully, but with enough pressure to stop her. “Then see this: I’m not done with you, Elara. Not now. Not after forty-nine times.”

She yanked free. “You may not be done, but I am.”

She stepped into the cool night air, her pulse hammering, her heart beating inside her chest only to freeze when she saw who was waiting by the curb.

Marcus Vale.

“Need a ride? I've been waiting here forever.” He smiled faintly.

Behind her, she saw Dorian step into the doorway and for the first time in a long time, she wondered if she had just started a war she couldn’t win.

“I don't leave a party until it's ended.” She smiled.

“So you are going to just stand here?” Marcus asked.

“Mr vale I have my own plans. If you don't mind please do excuse me.” She said and walked past him.

…

The charity gala was winding down, but the street outside was still full with people.

Laughter and the muted hum of conversation spilled from the open doors, mingling with the rumble of idling car engines as chauffeurs waited along the curb.

Elara kept her head down, as she lend to her car scanning the crowd for Lydia. The sooner she slipped away, the better.

Inside, the ballroom was still bright and glittering, and Dorian was still inside, speaking with donors. His presence in the same building felt like static electricity under her skin.

She spotted Lydia near the valet stand, speaking animatedly to another guest. Elara stepped toward her, but a voice stopped her.

“Ms. Vance!”

She turned reluctantly. Michael Carrington was weaving through the departing guests, champagne flute in hand and a grin that said he was enjoying himself far too much.

“I wanted to talk…”

“Not tonight,” she said quickly, glancing toward the ballroom. Through the open doors, she caught sight of Dorian standing near the grand staircase, scanning the crowd like he was looking for someone.

“Still running from him?” Michael smirked.

Before she could respond a sharp shout split the air.

“Look out!”

Elara’s head snapped toward the sound.

A catering truck, parked further down the block, jolted forward. Its parking brake had failed, sending it rolling toward the crowded sidewalk at alarming speed.

Everything slowed.

There were gasps. Shouts. The rush of people trying to move out of the way.

Elara felt her heels catch on the uneven pavement. Her body wouldn’t react quickly enough.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Isla freeze, eyes wide, steps from the truck’s path. Then a force hit her hardly to the side.

She was wrenched backward, colliding with a solid chest. She could feel a set of srong arms locking around her, one bracing against the back of her head, the other around her waist. She stumbled, it was as though the world was spinning, until they stopped against the corner of the building.

The truck roared past, missing her by inches before a valet dove into the cab and slammed on the brake.

Elara could hear her heartbeat thundering in her ears. The smell of cedar and something else filled her nose.

“You…” she began, but stopped when she looked up.

It was Dorian.

His face was pale, eyes dark with something she’d never seen before… fear? Real, unmasked fear.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low but sharp, scanning her as if he expected to find blood.

She shook her head slowly. “I’m…”

“You’re sure?” His grip didn’t loosen. She could feel his heart pounding against her back, his breath uneven.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

But still, he didn’t let go. Not until voices crowded around them, and Isla’s sharp tone cut through.

“Dorian! Oh my God, are you okay?” Isla pushed toward them, her hand going immediately to his sleeve. “I saw the truck coming straight at us.”

Her voice carried just enough for nearby cameras to catch it. A few phones were already pointed their way, flashes strobing against the night.

Dorian finally released Elara, stepping forward as if to check Isla. But his eyes lingered on Elara until the last possible second.

“Let’s get you both inside,” a security guard urged.

We nodded and went Inside.

Chaos reigned. Guests whispered in tight circles, some replaying the incident on their phones. By the time Elara reached the powder room to steady herself, she’d already overheard two different versions of the story, one where Dorian heroically saved Isla, and another where he’d thrown himself between both women.

By the time she got home, the “official” version had spread online.

Lydia called before Elara could even change. “You need to see this,” she said grimly.

Elara immediately took her check to check and it wasn't too long after she on her phone a gossip headline appeared.

ASHWORTH HEIR SAVES EX-WIFE DURING GALA ACCIDENT OR WAS HE PROTECTING ISLA ROWE?

The accompanying video clearly showed Dorian lunging toward Elara first. But the still images chosen for the article told a different story one of him shielding Isla with Elara blurred in the background.

Witness quotes painted Isla as the near-victim. And Isla herself was tagged in several posts, thanking “everyone who reached out after such a terrifying moment.”

---

Across the city, Dorian sat in his study.

The untouched whiskey on his desk had gone warm.

The image of Elara frozen in the path of that truck replayed in his mind. The way she’d looked at him when he caught her, like she didn’t recognize him.

And worse, the way he’d felt in that moment. He was not calculating, he didn't feel like he could control that moment. He was just desperate.

His phone buzzed. A message from Isla lit up the screen:

– Thanks for covering for me tonight.

His thumb hovered before typing back one word:

– Leave.

---

The next morning, Elara found a velvet box outside her apartment door.

Inside was a thin rose gold bracelet, engraved with a single line:

> Forty-nine isn’t the end.

She stared at it for a long time before setting it on the counter.

It wasn’t an apology it was infact like a declaration.

And she didn’t know if it terrified her more than the truck itself.

She sat down and then her phone rang. It was her Seabreeze Project client.

“Elara… we need to meet,” his voice was tense. “There’s been a complication. And it’s coming from inside Ashworth