Chapter 118
Elara
I woke up in Julian's bed with my body screaming at me in a dozen different languages, none of them kind.
Every muscle ached. My thighs were sore in a way that made walking to the bathroom an exercise in controlled wincing. There were marks on my hips where his fingers had dug in—I could see them in the mirror, small purple shadows that would take days to fade. Evidence. Like my body was determined to catalog every moment of last night, every choice I'd made that I couldn't unmake.
The shower helped, but only a little. Hot water sluiced over skin that felt too sensitive, too aware of itself. I stood there longer than I needed to, watching steam fog the glass, trying to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with the fact that I'd slept with Julian Vane again. That I'd let him touch me, claim me, fuck me with that desperate intensity that felt less like passion and more like he was trying to prove something neither of us could name.
"You're mine. I'm keeping you."
His voice echoed in my head, rough and certain, and I wanted to scrub it out along with the smell of his cologne that still clung to my skin. But you can't wash away words. You can't shower off the memory of someone's hands on you, their mouth, their—
Stop. I needed to stop.
I turned off the water and wrapped myself in one of his towels—thick, expensive, probably worth more than my weekly grocery budget. The bathroom counter held my scattered belongings: phone, the clothes I'd worn yesterday, the cheap makeup I'd thrown in my bag. Evidence of a life that didn't belong in this pristine penthouse with its floor-to-ceiling windows and its view of Manhattan spread out like a promise.
My phone buzzed just as I was pulling on yesterday's jeans. A message from Atlas: "Registration link for Praxis Award attached. Please complete by end of day."
I stared at the screen, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders. Right. The award. The thing Julian had promised me after—after everything. The prize for letting him turn me into whatever this was: not quite girlfriend, definitely not just a hookup, something twisted and undefined that made my stomach hurt when I thought about it too hard.
But I needed this. Needed it so badly I could taste it, metallic and desperate on my tongue. So I clicked the link, filled in my information with fingers that trembled slightly. Name. Age. School. Contact details. All the bureaucratic boxes that would transform me from "Julian Vane's dirty secret" into "Praxis Award nominee." As if those were two different people. As if I could be both and still recognize myself in the mirror.
I hit send before I could second-guess it, then immediately texted Raven: "Got the nomination. It's official."
Her response came back in seconds: "HOLY SHIT!!! I KNEW IT! I knew you'd get it! This is HUGE, Elara!"
Then, because Raven was Raven and could read between lines I hadn't even written: "You okay? Where are you?"
"Home soon," I typed back, which wasn't exactly a lie. I'd be home soon. I just wasn't there yet.
"We still doing the flea market thing today? Because I'm ready to make BANK and celebrate your genius."
I'd forgotten about that. Completely forgotten that we'd planned to spend Sunday at the Brooklyn Flea, that I'd promised to bring my paintings and actually try to make some money instead of just surviving on the scraps Julian threw my way. The irony wasn't lost on me—here I was, fresh from his bed, about to go sell art on the street because I still needed cash that desperately.
"Yeah," I texted back. "Meet you there at noon?"
"Perfect. Bring your A-game, Picasso. We're gonna kill it."
I smiled despite myself, despite the ache in my body and the confusion in my head. Raven had that effect—she made things feel possible even when they probably weren't.
The penthouse was empty when I emerged from the bedroom. No sign of Julian, though I could smell coffee from the kitchen and see evidence of his morning routine: a half-empty mug on the counter, the Wall Street Journal folded open to the business section, his phone charger still plugged in by the couch. He'd left in a hurry. I'd heard him taking a call around seven, his voice low and tense even through the closed door, and then the sound of the front door closing with that particular firmness that meant something important was happening.
Good. Better that he wasn't here. Better that I didn't have to face him in the cold light of morning and figure out what we were supposed to say to each other after last night.
I grabbed my bag, double-checked that I had everything, and let myself out. The elevator ride down felt longer than it should have, like the building was reluctant to release me back into the real world. Or maybe that was just me, reluctant to leave the safety of Julian's carefully constructed empire for the chaos of my actual life.
Outside, the city was already humming with Sunday energy: joggers in Central Park, families heading to brunch, tourists taking photos of buildings that would never stop being impressive no matter how many times you saw them.
I took the subway back to the Bronx, wedged between a woman with three shopping bags and a teenager blasting music through headphones that weren't quite adequate to the task. Normal. This was normal. This was my life—crowded trains and aching feet and the constant mental calculation of how to stretch twenty dollars across a week.
Not penthouse apartments and silk sheets and men who said "you're mine" like they meant it.
By the time I got home, I had maybe forty minutes before I needed to meet Raven. Enough time to change, grab my paintings, and try to shove the memory of last night into a box I could deal with later. Or never. Never sounded good.
Mamá was at the kitchen table when I walked in, her hands wrapped around a mug of café con leche, her expression carefully neutral in a way that meant she had questions she wasn't sure she should ask.
"You stayed out," she said. Not quite an accusation. Not quite not.
"I was with a friend." The lie tasted familiar. I'd gotten good at lying to her. Too good.
"Elara—"
"I have to get ready. I'm meeting Raven at the flea market." I was already moving toward my room, not giving her space to push. "We're selling some of my paintings. Trying to make rent money."
That stopped her. Mamá's face softened into something that looked like pride mixed with worry, and she nodded. "Okay. But Elara—be careful, yes? I know you think you have to do everything yourself, but—"
"I'll be careful."