Ellory’s fingers tremble as she fumbles her phone into her battered satchel, heart thudding from the day’s endless barrage of sly glances, clipped emails, and the humiliating memory of her half-soggy pitch notes. Her blush already burns before she even makes it out of the elevator; she’s certain everyone can see right through her, right down to the angry pink scars slashing along her right wrist below her cardigan cuff. The glass doors of the SkyEdge bullpen thud shut behind her, leaving her in the low-lit silence of after-hours, the city’s neon glow leaking in like distant applause.

She almost collides with Joren in the corridor, his broad shoulders hunched beneath a wrinkled grey suit jacket, tie knotted carelessly, streaks of fatigue framing the kind lines around his mouth. He smiles—gentle, unassuming, the kind of smile that promises safety, not sparks. “Long night?” he asks, voice soft, eyes lingering just a second too long as if searching her face for fractures he can fix.

Her reply is a nervous half-laugh, but Joren doesn’t let her squirm away. He leans against the wall, arms folded, offering steady presence. “You don’t have to let people walk over you, Ell. Not Silar. Not anyone.” He means it, and she feels his sincerity in her chest—a warmth, fragile in its unfamiliarity. Joren’s eyes flicker to her hand, hesitation giving him away, and for a trembling moment it feels like he might reach for her, anchor her to something real.

But before she can close the distance, a cackle cuts the hush: Peri Lune, tumbling around the corner in a riot of chartreuse fabric and rumors, high heels like punctuation marks. “Oh, look, the office puppy and the ingenue. You two exchanging love letters or just tragic glances?” They wink, tossing their hair, and Ellory bristles, hiding her scars with a forced tug on her sleeve. Joren’s jaw tightens, but Peri’s target shifts—eyes flicking toward the floor-to-ceiling glass that cages Silar in the boardroom, pacing, phone pressed to his ear. “He’s a hurricane, you know. Gorgeous, sure—but you’re both always cleaning up the mess.”

Ellory glances—Silar’s reflection a blur of sharp angles in the citylight, jaw set, suit unbuttoned, the suggestion of vulnerability in the way his hand tugs at his collar. Peri fans the flames with another quip, then glides off, trailing gossip like perfume.

The building’s hush folds around Joren and Ellory again. He studies her in the silence, the unspoken ache palpable. “Don’t let them shape you,” he says, hand brushing close enough to hers that she can feel the warmth of it. The air thickens, pulses aligning, and Ellory lets herself lean in, drawn by the promise of gentleness. Joren’s breath mingles with hers, his lips a whisper away—hesitating, suspended in hope—but Silar’s ringtone shatters the moment. Joren jerks back, swallowing a curse. Ellory’s face flushes, caught between apology and longing.

A minute later, the muted gold of the model apartment wraps around Ellory and Silar, isolation pressing them together. Silar’s eyes rake over her, tie forgotten, hair mussed from his anxious hands. “Rough night?” he drawls, but his bravado strains at the edges. Ellory shrugs, her gaze defiant. “Maybe it’ll get better,” she mutters, but Silar closes the space between them, his fingers ghosting over her jaw, sparks crackling over bare skin.

He draws her beneath the stream of the rainfall shower, their clothes stripped away in urgent, clumsy gestures. Steam curls around them, softening angles, turning scars and imperfections into poetry. Silar’s hands—hungry, reverent—follow the path of her wounds, then cradle her face as water slicks her hair to her neck. “You’re not broken,” he murmurs, voice cracked open. She shudders, then lets go, arching into him as mouth meets mouth, heat climbing in waves. Their bodies find a language outside of wit or war—raw, desperate, Ellie’s laughter dissolving into moans as she takes what she’s long denied herself.

After, Silar holds her under the spray, breath uneven, his eyes searching hers for something he can’t name. For the first time, Ellory feels powerful—not despite her scars, but because she dared show them.

Outside, Mirelle’s silhouette flickers on a security monitor, lips curling into a dangerous half-smile as she dials her phone. Her voice is a low, venomous promise. “I want every camera angle sent to my private server. We may need it… leverage is everything.”

To be continued…