Velvet catches the light as Era darts through the crowd, her black silk dress clinging damply to her spine. Hair pinned back, she looks like someone holding herself together with glass and string. Her lips tense into a careful smile as patrons swirl around her—shoulders straight, breath held tight, desperately avoiding the piercing gaze of Zelle lingering by the champagne pyramid. Veyron stands on the room’s periphery, suit pressed sharp, jaw set, eyes locked on Era with a hunger that’s half prayer, half warning. There’s blood at the edge of his knuckles, a bruise purpling along his cheekbone from earlier, but he stands unbowed, radiating possession and longing.

Cael jokes with donors at the center bar, laughter brittle as he pockets a chip for luck, thumb worrying the worn leather of his wallet. His eyes keep flicking to Era, lingering on the slant of her shoulders and the tension ghosting her lips. Lirian arrives drenched and breathless, hair curling at his temples, the rain-soaked charcoal of his suit painting him in shades of storm and regret. He offers a nod to Era, a hint of longing in the crooked set of his mouth, but keeps his distance.

Tomir Syth, cold in a midnight-blue jacket, glides onto the small stage. Spotlights turn his smile shark-bright. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is not just about art—tonight is about truth.” The room shivers. Cameras flash and patter; Era’s spine stiffens; Veyron’s fists clench. “The Marrowstone has employed...less than exemplary security,” Tomir drawls, eyes flicking to Veyron. “And rumor has it a certain staff member has emptied more than one vault.” Gasps stutter from the audience. Era freezes, heart hammering. Tomir’s gaze slides to Cael. “And let’s not forget, debts and addictions leave marks.” Cael’s mask drops—pale, exposed—and he stumbles back, mouth twisted into a snarl laced with humiliation.

Veyron, breath ragged, barrels through the crowd toward Tomir, but museum guards close ranks. Lirian finds Era’s hand, his long fingers trembling as they close over hers. “Come with me,” he whispers, voice a storm barely held at bay. They break from the chaos, pushing through fire doors, up slick stairs, out onto the rain-lashed roof.

Under a thrumming sky, Era’s mascara runs in black streaks. Lirian sheds his jacket, drapes it over her shoulders. He cups her face, thumb grazing a tear. “I’m sorry—for everything. I sabotage things. I’m so tired of being afraid.” She leans into him, lips parting, her voice thin: “I’m not whole, Lirian. I don’t know who I am without all this—without the crisis.”

Lightning forks above them. Without warning, their confessions spill free—regret, desire, secrets, the ache of always reaching and never arriving. Lirian’s mouth finds hers, desperate, apologetic, and she melts into him, rain soaking through silk and linen and skin. He lifts her onto the tarpaper, hands frantic, reverent; her legs twine around his hips, fingers clinging to the damp fabric at his back as they grasp for each other, breathless, half-laughing, half-sobbing, the world spinning out beneath their bodies. Every kiss tastes like hope mingled with old pain.

Afterward, clothes clinging, they lie tangled, thunder rolling across a bruised sky. “I still want you,” Lirian whispers. “No matter how much it hurts.” She brushes wet hair from his brow, eyes searching his face for something she can hold onto. “I want to be wanted for all the right reasons,” she says softly, voice raw.

Below, chaos festers. Zelle stalks Era’s phone, his message dripping venom: Come back to me, or I’ll destroy everything. Veyron, suspended, sits alone in the dark, staring at his hands and the cost of loving too much. Cael, reeling, finds Lirian’s number in his phone—a lifeline he never thought he’d need.

Era’s chest aches with love and fear and freedom, tears mingling with rain as she clamps onto Lirian in the cold. Above them, the sky cracks open, and somewhere inside her, something fragile dares to heal.

Behind them, the door slams—Zelle's silhouette, cold and sharp in the stormlight. “Era,” he calls, voice a promise and a threat. She goes still, heart in her throat.

To be continued...