A firm knock disrupted the silence of the room.
"Mr. Rourke? Room service. I've brought your breakfast."
Damien Rourke exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once on the edge of the checkbook before placing it on the bed. With a brief glance toward the woman curled up on the couch, he crossed the suite to open the door.
The cart rolled in, layered with silver domes, the scent of buttered toast and brewed coffee filling the air. Damien lifted a lid and scanned the spread, then turned back toward her.
"Come eat," he said flatly.
But the woman didn't move. Her shoulders shook, barely muffled sobs spilling from her as she kept her face turned to the wall.
He didn't repeat himself. Seating himself, Damien began to eat with measured calm, slicing into a croissant with surgical precision.
"I'll have my assistant wire five hundred million. That's all. I expect discretion," he said, as if reading off a business clause.
The woman froze.
Her tear-swollen eyes snapped toward him. "Five hundred million?"
Her voice cracked like thin ice. It wasn't confusion—it was an insult.
She hadn't asked for this. Hadn't planned this. A man stormed into the wrong room, shattering her night, then dared to leave behind a check like she was a bought convenience?
Elara's hands clenched in her lap. Her throat burned with unshed tears, but she forced her voice steady.
"You don't need to worry. I won't say a word."
Why would she?
Dignity held her upright as she gathered her clothes from the floor and disappeared into the bathroom without another glance.
In the mirror, she barely recognized herself—red eyes, tousled hair, bruised pride. What had she become overnight?
By the time she emerged, dressed and composed, Damien hadn't moved. He was still at the table, sipping coffee like she didn't exist, the untouched check resting on the bed like a joke with no punchline.
She left without a word.
Outside the hotel, her phone vibrated. A message lit the screen:
"Elara, I waited for you all night. Something must have come up, right? No worries—I'll wait for your call. Boarding soon. I'll bring you something nice when I'm back. Love you. —Archer"
Elara stood still.
Waited all night?
But… he wasn't there. She hadn't found him in that room. Was there a mistake?
Did Selene—her best friend—give her the wrong room number?
No. That couldn't be. Selene wouldn't do that. Would she?
Elara shut off her phone and stepped into the city's noise. Taxis roared past, strangers brushed her shoulders, and suddenly the world felt enormous. Like she'd never belonged to it.
Maybe Archer's departure was the end of their story. And maybe… that was okay.
But the thought of that goodbye crushed her chest.
Last night… Selene. Did you—?
Her thumb hovered over her screen, instinctively dialing. The line rang once before a mechanical voice replied:
"The number you're trying to reach is currently switched off."
Selene wasn't answering.
Elara walked without direction, feet carrying her through memories.
Archer's laugh. His arms wrapped around her. The way he promised daily calls. A two-year long-distance stretch and then forever.
He said they'd get married. That he couldn't wait to start a life with her.
But now?
Now, she wasn't even sure what they had left. Could she really pretend nothing happened? Pretend she hadn't been—
No. They couldn't go back.
Not to the wedding. Not to the plans. Not to the children she once imagined with him.
A screech of tires jolted her back to reality. A car slammed on its brakes just feet from where she stood, frozen in the middle of the road.
The driver shouted. Elara stumbled back to the curb, her heart racing, her breath torn and shallow.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time, it was Archer's mother.
Wiping her face, she took a shaky breath and answered. "Mrs. Lang…"
But the older woman didn't let her finish.
"Elara, I think it's time you step away from Archer."
Silence.
"I tolerated your relationship because Archer insisted. But he's abroad now, studying, building his future. And there's someone else with him—a young woman from a good family. She'll be an asset to him. She adores him. She's the one who helped him get that opportunity."
The words were a slow dagger.
"You're from a small town, aren't you? No offense, but someone like you… doesn't quite match our expectations for the Lang family."
Elara's fingers clenched around the phone. Her lips parted, but no words came.
"If you truly care about Archer," the woman continued, "you'll be the one to let go. If he doesn't initiate it, he may resist. But if you do…"
She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
The message was clear.
Elara lowered the phone and stood there in silence.
Around her, the world moved on—honking cars, strangers walking past, lives unfolding like hers wasn't shattering into quiet, invisible pieces.