Elara
The Senopati night breeze still blew softly, playing with the messy ends of my hair, but the chill was gone. How could I feel cold when a pair of warm hands cupped my face, holding me like I was the most precious thing in the world—something he was terrified of breaking?
My heart hammered against my ribs, racing the rhythm of Dio's breath fanning across my forehead.
"Listen. The rhythm matches mine," he had whispered earlier.
It was a simple sentence, devoid of complex metaphors, yet it paralyzed every ounce of my logic. I stared into Dio's dark eyes. There was no hesitation there. No lingering shadows of the wife who had left him, no anxiety over our glaring social divide. There was only me.
Elara. Not a liquid asset for Dwijaya Trading. Not the homeroom teacher. Just Elara.
