Chapter 7: Moments

Elliot stepped out into the crisp night air, the muted bass of the club's music fading as the door swung shut behind him. Jonathan was waiting in the sedan.

"Home," Elliot muttered.

Jonathan opened the door, stepped into the back seat, and removed his phone from his pocket. He looked at the screen for a moment before he pressed the call button.

"Hello," said Elliot. He glanced back at the club, where Alexia was still inside. "She's still in the club… stay and follow her back to the estate. I'll call you tomorrow."

Ending the call, Elliot leaned back on the seat. He could still feel her in his arms, the brief connection they'd shared on the dance floor after five long years. Her touch had been restrained, her words measured, but they'd cut through him like a blade. "Don't read too much into this."

He hadn't imagined the anger in her eyes. Hesitation. A crack in the wall she'd built between them.

This time, I won't fail.

Alexia sat on a plush cream couch in her suite with a steaming mug of tea. On the easel across from her sat the beginnings of a new painting—bold crimson and black that seemed to bleed into one another with splashes of blue representing moments.

She reached for her phone and called Myra.

"Myra."

"Morning! Didn't expect to hear from you this early."

"Wanted to check on you. How was last night?"

A soft laugh came from the other end. "Edward's great—funny, kind, even insightful. It was nice to feel… normal for once."

"You deserve that. A night where you don't have to think about anything else."

"What about you? Elliot didn't follow you out of the club, did he?"

"No. I stayed a little longer. Just needed to breathe."

"Alexia—"

"I'm fine.".

Myra didn't press further. "Call me later, okay?"

"I will."

Ending the call, Alexia turned back to the easel. The crimson and black swirled together like unspoken thoughts she couldn't yet name. She stared at it for a moment longer before picking up her brush.

Elliot stepped into Alexia's studio without announcing himself. The space was alive with her energy—unfinished paintings leaning against the walls, brushes and tools scattered on every surface. She stood at her easel, her back to him, her paint-smeared jeans and loose shirt a contrast to the vibrant strokes on the canvas before her.

"I thought you'd be further along," Elliot said, his tone light but inquisitive.

Alexia turned slowly. "It's been two days. You'll have to wait like everyone else."

He moved closer, his gaze landing on the HATE painting, which stood boldly against the easel beside her work in progress. Next to it was another painting—one he hadn't seen before. The second piece had the same chaotic energy, but there was a shift in tone.

"These aren't part of the contract," Elliot said, his voice quieter now.

"They're not. They're personal."

He studied the raw strokes of crimson and black, noticing splashes of shades of blue that seemed to cut through the chaos. "A series?"

"Five pieces."

 "When they're done, you should consider showing them. A small exhibition, maybe."

"I'll think about it."

"You should, they're raw."

Alexia's lips parted, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned back to the canvas.

Elliot, sensing her resistance, but unwilling to push too hard. "Dinner tonight?" he offered after a moment.

"In my suite. Casual. 8 pm," said Alexia, without turning around.

"I'll have Marcella prepare something nice."

"Fine," she replied, already reaching for her brush again.

Elliot lingered for just a moment longer, gazing between the HATE painting and the woman standing before it. Then, without another word, he turned and left the studio.

Later that evening, Alexia stood by the bay window. When the door opened behind her, she didn't turn. "You're on time. Impressive."

"Eight o'clock sharp."

"Marcella did a nice job," Alexia remarked, finally turning to face him.

"She always does," Elliot said as he set a bottle of wine on the table. "May I?"

Alexia gave a small nod. "Why not?"

They sat down across from each other, the tension between them filling the space like an uninvited guest.

"You wanted to talk."

 "Yes… it's… about my father. About why I disappeared."

Alexia's expression didn't change, but she set her glass down, waiting.

"He made a deal with the wrong kind of people. Business partners who didn't care about loyalty or morality—only money. When his company collapsed, he owed them millions. They didn't come for him, though. They came for me."

Are you telling the truth, Elliot?

"He died in a car accident shortly after. That left me to clean up his mess," said Elliot, taking a drink of wine. "It wasn't just about money—it was about survival. For both of us."

"For both of us?"

"They would've used you to get to me," said Elliot, meeting her gaze directly. "I couldn't let that happen."

"So you walked away. Without a word."

"It was the only way I could keep you safe."

Alexia picked up her glass, turning it in her hand but not drinking. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't expect anything from you. I just wanted you to know the truth. At least part of it."

"And the rest?"

"Another time. When you're ready to hear it."

The tension didn't ease, but Alexia looked away first. "This doesn't change anything, Elliot."

"I know."

She stood, her chair scraping softly against the floor. "Thank you for dinner. You can see yourself out."

Elliot hesitated, but rose to his feet. "Goodnight, Alexia."

She didn't respond, her back already turned away from him as she walked to the window. He left quietly.

Alone, Alexia stared out into the night, her reflection faint in the glass. Her fingers brushed against the edge of the table as she thought of his words. This doesn't change anything, she told herself again. It's moments like this that eat at her soul, leaving doubt in her mind that can betray her.