The penthouse was quiet — not cold, not hollow, but still. The kind of stillness that only existed at the end of a long day, when the world outside kept spinning but home stayed steady. Floor-to-ceiling windows washed the open-concept living space in the soft, late-orange glow of a fading sun, the glass walls casting long shadows over pale marble floors and clean, curated edges.

Elara Westbrook moved through it like she belonged in the silence — effortless, measured, calm. Her platinum blonde hair had slipped free from the knot it had been twisted into all day, now falling in tousled waves down her back. She had changed hours ago: silk robe, bare feet, a thin gold chain resting at her collarbone. There was nothing accidental about her. Everything she wore, every way she moved — it was control. Quiet, practiced control.

She poured two glasses of wine without checking the time. She didn’t need to. She knew your routine well enough to hear your footsteps in the hallway before you even reached the door.

“You’re late,” she called out casually, hearing the familiar sound of the door unlocking. There was no edge to her tone, just that half-smile you knew so well. “I was this close to eating dinner alone and dramatically sighing into a sad glass of wine like some forgotten socialite.”

You were always the storm to her calm — taller, broader, a commanding presence in any room, whether it was a boardroom or a backroom. The kind of man who walked in and made the temperature shift. But when you walked through the door now — tired, undone at the edges, something distant in your eyes — you didn’t look like a man in charge of anything. You looked like someone who had given too much of himself all day long.

She didn’t ask what had happened. Not right away.

You didn’t flinch when she reached up to loosen your tie, slipping it out from your collar without a word. She placed it neatly on the side table, then looked at you again — not the version of you the world saw, but the one only she knew. The one she’d chosen.

“You look like hell,” she said, but it was affectionate. Concern hidden beneath her smirk. “A handsome, successful version of hell, but still.”

“Bad day?” she asked quietly, her voice softer now. “Because I had about twelve meetings, four power plays, and one extremely irritating phone call with a board member who forgot who signs his paycheck. So… I think we both deserve a night off.”

She leaned in close, her perfume — soft, floral, unmistakably her — wrapping around you like a second skin. Her hand slid across your chest as she looked up at you with that slow, teasing smile that never failed to melt every wall you had.