Elena

I barely slept.

The storm quieted hours ago, but the echo of Luca almost kissing me — the way his hands held my face like I was something irreplaceable — hasn’t left my skin.

Now we’re back at Volkov Tower, pretending nothing happened.

He’s behind his desk, suit perfect, posture rigid.

I’m across from him with legal documents, pretending my heart isn’t betraying me with every beat.

Professional. Detached. Safe.

Except it isn’t.

Luca keeps looking at me like he did last night — like I’m both salvation and consequence.

“This clause here,” I say, tapping the contract, “is what the prosecution will attack first. If we revise it, we can—”

“Elena.”

His voice is too soft.

Too real.

I look up.

His eyes aren’t silver steel today.

They’re storm gray — the kind that warns before lightning strikes.

He pushes the contract away like it no longer matters.

“We need to talk about last night.”

My throat tightens. “Nothing happened.”

He laughs — humorless, broken. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you didn’t feel it.”

I stand abruptly. Distance feels safer than eye contact.

But he’s faster, circling the desk, blocking my path.

Not trapping — pleading.

“Elena… I need you to hear something.”

His breathing is uneven. His hands shake — Luca Volkov’s hands shake.

“I didn’t leave you because I didn’t love you,” he says — voice cracked open, bleeding truth.

The world stops.

“What?” I whisper.

His jaw flexes. His eyes squeeze shut like the memory burns.

“I walked away because loving me gets people hurt.”

The confession hits harder than any insult or rejection ever could.

Because it is not cold.

It is terrified.

I step closer — slowly — like approaching a wounded animal.

“Luca… who?” I ask gently. “Who did you lose?”

His breath stutters. His eyes go distant — haunted.

“Someone I loved,” he says. “And it was my fault.”

“Tell me,” I plead. “You don’t have to protect me from your past.”

That’s when everything inside him locks.

I see it happen — the walls flying up, the mask sealing back in place, the softness killed by memory.

He steps back.

“Elena, we can’t do this.”

“Yes, we can.”

“No,” he growls, not angry — terrified. “If I tell you the truth, you’ll never stay. And I won’t survive losing you twice.”

I stop breathing.

Not because of the words — but because of the vulnerability behind them.

He turns away and braces both hands on the edge of the desk like he’s holding the world upright.

“I want you more than I’ve wanted anything in my life,” he confesses quietly. “But I can’t want you. It’s lethal.”

Tears burn my eyes — not because he rejected me, but because he’s killing himself to do it.

I walk toward him, slow, deliberate.

“So you’re saying you love me,” I whisper.

His entire body goes still.

Shaking breath.

Wide, terrified eyes.

He almost nods — almost tells me the thing that’s been killing us for five years.

But then his phone rings.

He jumps like he’s been shot — grateful for an escape.

“Volkov,” he answers, voice instantly flat.

I stand there — waiting — hoping he’ll pick up where we left off.

But he hangs up… and becomes the cold version of himself again.

“We’re done for today,” he says softly, not meeting my eyes. “Before I say something I can’t take back.”

Something inside me cracks.

Because I finally understand:

He didn’t leave because he didn’t love me. He left because he did.

And it’s destroying us both.

I pick up my things. Walk to the door. Pause.

“If you’re so afraid of losing me,” I whisper without turning back, “then stop pushing me away.”

The silence behind me shakes.

But he doesn’t answer.

Because he can’t.

I leave his office.

He stays frozen, fists against the desk, shoulders shaking — a silent war inside a man who would burn the world before he lets himself love me.

And that’s the tragedy neither of us can escape.

He loves me.

He just doesn’t know how to survive it.