Laerise stands half-shadowed in the stairwell, her blazer clutched tight across her chest, every muscle in her body coiled, too proud and too exhausted to move. Her hair is a mess—plastering to her cheeks, dark from the rain she didn’t bother shaking off. Her lips are bitten raw, trembling between fury and surrender. The heel of one shoe dangles from her finger, the other tapping nervously against concrete, the click echoing up the silent shaft.

Yulian appears, all sharp lines in a torn white shirt, the buttons half-undone, blood blooming at his knuckles. His gaze sweeps over Laerise—hungry, haunted, scared. There’s nothing left to posture; the arrogance in his jaw is gone, replaced by a desperate, aching vulnerability. He stands a step below her, every breath ragged, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for a final blow. His voice breaks the silence. “You still hate me?” He almost smiles, but it twists with pain.

She laughs—a brittle, beautiful sound. “I want to hate you,” she whispers, lowering her gaze, lashes wet. “But I keep making the wrong choice.” Her fingers reach to touch the seam of his wrist, feather-light, as if she’s afraid her own longing will break them both. A shaky breath, and she’s searching his face for something true.

His hand covers hers, rough and trembling. He draws her against him—no pretense, just heat and apology, forehead pressed to hers. “You destroy me,” he confesses, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. The kiss that follows is unsteady, mouths hungry, bodies pressed into the corner of the stairwell, hands in hair, nails at waists, all their anger unraveling in the way they clutch at each other, frantic for something pure. Her leg wraps around his hip; his hand cradles the bare curve of her thigh, pulling her closer as if proximity could erase all the wreckage.

When they finally break apart, Laerise’s cheeks are flushed, a tear clinging to her lashes. “If anyone sees us—” she starts, but the warning dies in her throat. Yulian smirks through the guilt. “Let them. It’s the least of our secrets now.” They both know this is surrender, not victory.

Above them, Belise watches from the window outside the executive office, lips pressed into a hard line, suit immaculate as ever. Her hair is sleek, her eyes rimmed with sleeplessness, one heel kicked off beneath her desk. She turns a sealed envelope over and over in her hand, dark polish catching the first light of dawn. The contents could burn Yulian’s world to ash—a web of sabotage and confession. Her fingertips tremble, each second charged with indecision. She breathes out, slow, shakily, and finally tosses the envelope into the CEO’s fireplace, watching the paper curl and blacken. Her shoulders fall, posture collapsing with the effort of letting go.

In a corner office, Sciro’s reflection flickers in a dark window, tie loosened, face unreadable. The phones keep ringing. No one answers.

By the stairwell, Yulian and Laerise stand tangled together, bruised and breathless, foreheads touching. “What now?” she whispers. His thumb wipes the salt from her cheek, eyes full of awe and disbelief. “We survive,” he says—uncertain, hopeful, terrified.

They emerge into morning, hands entwined, their silhouettes outlined by harsh white light. Trust shattered, clothes rumpled, but still—moving forward. Inside, above, alone in her glass kingdom, Belise closes her eyes against the sunrise. She is powerful now—but lonelier than ever.

The city wakes below, indifferent. Secrets sleep in ashes. And somewhere inside HalcyonGen, the ache of desire lingers, sharp as broken glass, sweet as possibility.