The museum’s walls echoed with the aftermath of chaos—voices sharp as broken glass, nerves stretched to the limit. Era sat at her desk, hands trembling as she stared down at a text from Zelle: We need to talk. Alone. Her dark hair was twisted back haphazardly, wisps falling across her flushed cheeks. Her blouse hung off one shoulder, buttons uneven—she’d barely slept since the gala. A tightness pressed in her chest; she felt the gaze of everyone, the weight of secrets threatening to shatter her.

She looked up just as Veyron stalked past the open door, his black shirt rumpled, jaw clenched so hard a vein stood out in his neck. He paused, blue eyes blazing, body vibrating with fury and something more desperate. Lirian appeared behind him, face pale, voice low—“Don’t do this here.” The air sizzled. Veyron whipped around, his posture wide and menacing. “You think I’m afraid of you, Vos? You think you know what she wants?” Lirian’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. “I know what she doesn’t want. This—you. Crushing her.”

Veyron’s nostrils flared; Era could see the toll her indecision had carved into his face. He looked at her then, a plea hidden behind rage, but she just shook her head, silent tears brimming. Lirian stepped closer—his tie askew, hair falling limply over his forehead, a smudge of charcoal on his jaw. “She’s not yours to break,” he ground out. Veyron lunged, shoving him into a glass case—the crash thundered through the hall. Lirian twisted away, grabbing Veyron’s wrist, their bodies locked in violent ballet, each movement painting their pain across the room.

Era pressed trembling fingers to her lips. For a heartbeat, she wanted to run—leave the museum, shed her name, begin again. Instead, she found herself walking down the staff hallway, shoulders hunched, the sound of the fight echoing behind her. She slipped into the exhibition storage, blinking in the dim light—and found Cael curled up on the edge of a cot, knees drawn to his chest, eyes rimmed red. His shirt was untucked, hair mussed, the tattoos down his forearms almost shaking as his hands fidgeted. He tried for a smirk, but the mask didn’t hold. “Welcome to my pity party,” he said, voice raw.

She sat beside him, their knees touching. “I’m so tired of pretending,” she murmured. Cael’s fingers brushed hers, tentative and cold. “I lost… everything,” he whispered. “Money. Friends. I’m not—I can’t stop. Not even for you.” Era leaned into his shoulder, her perfume mingling with the scent of cigarettes and desperation. “I don’t want you to stop for me,” she said softly. “But maybe you could let someone help.”

He hesitated, then nodded, tears leaking silently as she traced her thumb along his knuckles. She pulled him close, pressing his head to her bare shoulder. The cot creaked as she shifted, curling around him, their fingers laced tight. Cael’s cry was muffled against her skin—a sound of surrender and longing. She kissed his forehead, her own eyes brimming. For once, she was the strong one. They stayed like that—heat and comfort, breath mingling, the world narrowed to the tiny softness between their bodies. No sex, only intimacy: the brush of lips to temple, the press of palm to thigh, hearts beating in sync as he finally slept, breath warm against her collarbone.

But calm never lasts. Her phone vibrated—a news alert: Dirty secrets at Marrowstone? Anonymous tip exposes museum security breach. She stared, numb, as Cael shifted in his sleep. Down the hallway, Veyron’s face had gone stark white as he read the headline, the past clawing at his throat. Era’s own phone chimed again: a message with no name attached. I know who you really are. Time to choose, Era.

She sat up, breath stolen, clutching Cael’s sleeping hand. Outside, footsteps thundered—Lirian, frantic, searching for her voice in the dark.

To be continued...