Chapter 203
Elara
The September air felt different in Providence—cleaner somehow, like I could breathe without the weight of New York pressing down on my lungs. I stood in front of the RISD dorms, staring at the brick building that would be my home for the next four years, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Students streamed past me with portfolio cases and paint-stained backpacks. A girl with blue hair was arguing with her parents about where to put her easel. Two guys were hauling a massive sculpture that looked like it might not fit through the door. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, what they were doing.
I pulled out my acceptance letter for the third time that morning, just to make sure it was real. The paper had gone soft from being folded and unfolded so many times.
My phone buzzed. Raven.
"So?" Her voice came through breathless. "How does it feel?"
"I'm standing here trying to remember how to walk," I said, watching a professor help someone carry a stack of canvases. "It still doesn't feel real."
"Well, make it real, because you earned this." I heard rustling, like she was moving around. "And remember—when I'm running my empire, you get first dibs on any art positions."
I laughed. "I'll hold you to that. How's your grandma?"
"Driving the nurses crazy, which means she's back to normal." Raven's voice softened. "She keeps asking about you. Says you're the reason she's still here."
"Tell her the hospital food is supposed to be terrible. It builds character."
"Text me pictures of everything, okay? And Elara?" She paused. "I'm proud of you."
The words hit somewhere in my chest. "Thank you."
After we hung up, I forced myself to take a step forward. Then another. I was halfway across the quad when I saw the car.
Julian's black Mercedes, completely out of place among the minivans and beat-up Hondas. He got out holding two gift boxes, and my heart did that complicated thing it always did around him now.
"You came," I said.
"Of course I came." He walked toward me, moving carefully. The scars from his grandfather's punishment still bothered him sometimes, though he tried to hide it. "Did you think I'd miss this?"
"I didn't tell you what time I was arriving."
"Atlas may have mentioned your travel schedule." At my look, he almost smiled. "I didn't ask him to spy. He volunteered."
I should have been annoyed. Instead, I just felt tired. "You brought presents?"
"I brought something that belongs to you." He held out the smaller box. "I should have given this back a long time ago."
I knew what it was before I opened it. My father's pocket watch, the gold casing polished until it gleamed. The crack across the face was gone. When I held it up to my ear, I could hear it ticking—steady, alive.
"You fixed it," I whispered.
"It took months to find the right parts. The horologist said the mechanism was salvageable, but it was delicate work." Julian's voice was quiet. "I know I kept it when you left Blackwood. I told myself you weren't ready to have it back. But really, I kept it because it was the only piece of you I had left."
I looked up at him. "I thought you kept it as leverage. Something to use against me if I tried to leave."
"No." He stepped closer. "I kept it because I wanted time to prove I could fix things. Not just the watch. Everything I broke." He gestured at it, still in my hands. "Time can't go backward. But it can move forward. Like us."
The watch ticked against my palm. I remembered the last time I'd held it, shattered and silent. Now it was whole again.
"Thank you," I said. The words felt too small.
"There's something else." He held out the second box, wrapped in dark blue paper. "You gave this back to me once because you thought it meant I owned you. I'm asking you to take it again, but different this time."
I unwrapped it slowly. A velvet jewelry box. Inside, a compass pendant—not the same one I'd returned, but similar. The silver was finer, the compass slightly larger. When I turned it over, I found tiny letters engraved on the back: You'll always find your way home.
"The first one was from someone who thought he could control your direction," Julian said. His hands were shaking slightly. "This one is from someone who knows you'll find your own way. I'm not asking you to come back to me, Elara. I'm saying that wherever you go, whatever you choose, I'll be here. Not as a cage. As a choice."
I stared at the compass, watching the needle settle north. For so long, Julian's gifts had come with strings attached. But this felt different. Like he was actually letting go.
"Wait." I looked up at him, and I couldn't help smiling a little. "Are you saying you're giving up? That you're just going to let me build my life here without you?"
His face went pale. "What? No! I'm not—" He caught himself, seeing my expression. "You're messing with me."
"Maybe a little."
"I am not giving up." He said it firmly, but there was relief in his eyes now. "I'm learning to love you without conditions. Without trying to control everything."
"Then I accept," I said, cutting him off.
He froze. "You... what?"
"I accept." I held his gaze, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. "I choose you, Julian. I choose us."
For a moment, he just stared at me like he couldn't process the words. Then he moved, pulling me into his arms so suddenly that I gasped. His hands were in my hair, his face buried against my neck, and I could feel him shaking.
"Say it again," he whispered. "Please."
"I choose you." I wrapped my arms around him, holding on just as tightly. "I'm saying yes. We're together. Officially."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, and his eyes were bright. "You mean it? You're not—this isn't—"
"I mean it." I reached up and touched his face, feeling the rough stubble under my palm. "I'm scared. I'm terrified, actually. But I'm also tired of running from the one thing that feels right."
"Elara." He said my name like a prayer, like something precious. Then he kissed me.
It wasn't like the desperate, painful kisses we'd shared before—the ones weighted with guilt and anger and all the ways we'd hurt each other. This was different. Softer. Like a promise being made with our mouths instead of words.
Around us, students walked past. Someone whistled. I heard a girl giggle and say something about "getting a room." But I didn't care. Let them look. Let them see that I was choosing this, choosing him, choosing us.
When we finally broke apart, Julian was smiling—really smiling, not the careful half-smiles he usually gave. "I can't believe you just did that."
"Neither can I." I laughed, breathless and a little dizzy. "Help me move in? I want to show you everything."
"I'd love nothing more."
He took my bags and I took his hand, and together we walked across campus. The afternoon sun was warm on my shoulders. Students were everywhere—setting up dorm rooms, meeting roommates, saying goodbye to parents. Julian drew some curious looks in his expensive suit, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He was too busy listening to me talk.
"That's the painting building," I said, pointing to a brick structure with huge windows. "And over there is the sculpture garden. I have foundation classes in both, but I'm focusing on painting. Obviously."
"Obviously." He squeezed my hand. "Tell me more."
We walked past the library, the student center, the ceramics studio with its distinctive chimney. I showed him the cafe where I'd probably spend too much money on coffee, the green space where students liked to sketch, the little courtyard with benches tucked between buildings.
"I'm going to be here for four years," I said eventually, as we sat down on one of those benches. "That's a long time. We won't be able to see each other as much."
"New York to Providence is three hours." He said it like he'd already looked it up, already planned it. "I can drive up every Friday evening, leave Sunday night. Or you can come to New York some weekends if you want."