Midnight regrets
The city was silent at midnight—just the hum of distant traffic and the occasional gust of wind rattling against glass. In his darkened penthouse, Steven Ross sat alone, draped in shadow, Helen's face glowing faintly from the screen of his tablet.
A replay of her most recent interview streamed quietly—a panel for Women in Design. She wore a steel-blue pantsuit, her hair swept up, eyes calm but brilliant with intent. She spoke about sustainable fashion, mentoring young talent, and opening Élan's third location in Chicago.
The applause echoed faintly from the speakers. Steven turned the volume down.
His chest ached with something bitter. Regret. Hunger. A feeling that hollowed him out nightly.
He had built empires. He had worn custom suits, closed billion-dollar deals. But the one thing he couldn't reclaim—no matter the money or the power—was her.
Helen had become the woman the world celebrated—and he, the man she had outgrown.
He reached for a whiskey bottle, pouring a slow measure. It was nearly empty—like the life around him.
Just then, his phone buzzed. A message. Jennifer.
> Still nothing from Helen?
> She's slipping away faster than either of us expected. We need to act.
Steven's jaw clenched.
Jennifer had been the last to remain loyal—though he often questioned her motives. She worked closely with his PR team, keeping rumors at bay, managing shareholders, and—more than anything—fueling his obsession with Helen's downfall. Or, as Jennifer phrased it, "rescue."
He typed back.
> She's too strong now. I see her everywhere. She's glowing... And I'm fading.
Jennifer replied instantly.
> Then let me help. But this time, we don't warn her. We remind her. Of what you had. What she's still afraid to feel.
Steven paused, rereading the message.
> What are you suggesting?
> A meeting. She won't come to you. But if you show her you're lost without her… that you still love her… she might see past Sebastian.
He stared at the screen, his hand frozen.
He hated how desperate he felt. How low he'd fallen.
But he hated more that someone else had taken Helen's warmth—her brilliance—for himself.
And she had once loved him. Truly.
Maybe, if he just reached her…
He typed:
> Do it. Set it up. Whatever it takes.
And then he turned back to the screen, watching her once more, pausing on the moment she smiled.
Even at midnight, Helen's light outshone the dark.
---
Across the city, Helen walked through Élan's studio after hours, heels clicking softly, the faint scent of jasmine and fabric dye still lingering in the air. Rolls of silk and unfinished sketches surrounded her like a garden of ambition.
She paused by the glass window overlooking the street—snow just beginning to fall.
Business was booming. Orders came faster than her team could produce. Articles labeled her the quiet queen of minimalist couture. Celebrities requested custom gowns. But none of it dulled the ache that still tugged at her heart at strange hours.
She thought of Sebastian. His mother was recovering. He had kissed her hand yesterday, lingering as though afraid she'd slip away again.
She hadn't told him about Jennifer's article. Not yet.
But soon, she would.
Because if she wanted to love again, really love—she needed to stop running.
Helen closed her eyes.
And in that moment, her phone buzzed with a name she hadn't seen in weeks.
Steven Ross.
A simple message.
> Helen. Please. Just one conversation. One moment. I have nothing left but you.
She didn't reply.
But her hands trembled slightly as she locked the phone and looked out into the night.
---
Jennifer Marsh knew how to play shadows like strings on a violin.
In sleek designer heels and a charcoal trench coat, she moved through the city with the precision of a strategist—always calculating, always watching. Helen Ross's rise had not just been unexpected. It had been unstoppable.
Jennifer had warned Steven it might happen, but even she hadn't predicted this.
Helen wasn't just successful—she was legendary now.
Her face graced the covers of Forbes, Vogue, and TIME in the same month. Headlines read:
"The Phoenix of Fashion: Helen Ross's Empire Rises from Ashes"
"Power. Poise. Profit: Helen Ross Redefines Elegance and Authority"
She opened Élan's third store in Chicago with a black-tie gala attended by senators, tech moguls, and royalty. Fortune 500 CEOs requested her as a speaker. Art museums displayed her fashion as wearable sculpture.
Every man with power wanted her beside him.
But Helen remained untouchable.
---
Jennifer watched with growing fury.
She leaked another anonymous tip—this time to a political gossip blog—suggesting Helen's fortune had been "built on stolen investment contacts from Steven Ross." The claim was false, of course, but it didn't matter. The suggestion was enough to stir tension.
It didn't work.
Helen's legal team issued a swift, calm statement. Evidence was provided. The rumor dissolved within twenty-four hours.
Even whispers could not stick to her.
Jennifer slammed her tablet shut in frustration.
"Why does nothing touch her?" she hissed to herself.
Because Helen wasn't just admired—she was feared. The way she moved. The way she spoke. Even in silence, she held power. She had become the woman other women studied, and men—especially powerful men—obsessed over.
And that drove Steven mad.
---
At midnight, Steven stood again before the city lights, drink in hand. Valerie had left for the week—claiming "space." He hadn't argued. Her absence was a relief.
But Helen's was not.
She was everywhere and nowhere. On screens. In boardrooms. In his thoughts. Her beauty was sharper now, more defined by confidence and heartbreak. But what gnawed at him more than her power… was her peace.
She had found something he never could: freedom from him.
And now the world wanted her.
Rumors reached him—senators courting her at events. A billionaire from Dubai offering a partnership and a private island. Film directors, luxury tycoons, even political advisors requesting meetings.
Steven felt it like a choke around his throat.
He texted Jennifer again.
> She's slipping through my fingers.
She responded bluntly:
> She already has.
> But you're not the only one who wants her. If you don't act soon… someone else will.
Steven stared at the message. The room felt colder.
He typed:
> Then make her fall. Or bring her to me. Whatever it takes.
He didn't know if he was begging for love—or for possession.
Maybe both.
---
But Helen wasn't watching Steven anymore.
She stood in her private suite above the boutique, overlooking the city she had conquered. Her robe trailed like a whisper over the marble floor. On her desk sat an invitation—a black-tie gala in D.C. The President's cultural committee had named her "Icon of the Year."
She smiled faintly.
There had been offers. Men of wealth. Charm. Influence. But her heart still pulled in one direction.
Sebastian.
His silence was careful, not distant. He respected her space. He still sent notes—quiet ones. D
rawings. Memories. A photo of his mother smiling, recovering well.
She knew the world wanted her.
But only one man had wanted her before the world did.
And that was the only kind of love she would ever choose again.