ELENA

I thought the hardest part would be stepping into the world beside Luca again.

I was wrong.

The hardest part is the silence that follows the chaos.

Because the morning after the Winter Charity Ball, everything explodes.

My phone lights up nonstop — calls, texts, news alerts:

#VolkovAndMoretti

#Eluca

LUCA VOLKOV BREAKS YEARS OF SILENCE WITH ONE KISS

And then:

“Who is Elena Moretti — the woman powerful enough to bring Volkov to his knees?”

My chest tightens.

They’re not asking because they care. They’re asking because they want to destroy.

I sit on the balcony of Adrian and Seraphina’s penthouse, watching New York blur beneath the morning snowfall. I don’t hear the door open — but I feel him.

Luca.

A familiar weight settles around my shoulders — his coat. He stands behind me, silent, letting me choose whether to lean back or pull away.

Five years ago, I pulled away.

Today, I lean.

“What are you thinking?” he asks quietly, voice careful, like he’s touching an old wound.

“That you didn’t deserve this,” I whisper. “Your world. Your name. Your empire. You didn’t deserve to be torn apart on camera just because you—”

“Loved you?”

My breath catches.

He steps in front of me, kneels — kneels — not out of submission but out of devotion fierce enough to terrify the sky.

“Look at me.”

When I do, I see what the world never gets to see: not the king, not the weapon, not the monster.

Just a man who almost died of loving me quietly.

“I don’t care what they say,” he murmurs. “I don’t care what they want. I don’t care what they think I should be.”

His hand slides over mine — warm, steady, anchored.

“I am done hiding you like a secret I’m afraid to lose.”

I blink through tears.

“Luca—”

He stands, and before I can breathe, he walks back inside — takes the tablet off the table, taps a button.

A livestream window opens.

The press conference.

For him. For the Volkov Corporation. For his reputation.

He turns to me, voice steady.

“Walk in there with me.”

My heart slams.

“Luca, if you do this—”

“I already chose,” he interrupts softly. “I chose the night I walked away. I chose the moment I broke you. I chose when I let you go.”

His voice cracks — barely, but enough to ruin me.

“That was the worst decision of my life. I’m fixing it now.”

Before I can speak, before doubt can stop him, he threads his fingers through mine and leads me to the waiting press — cameras, microphones, flashes.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He steps to the podium, still holding my hand.

The room goes dead silent.

A reporter begins, “Mr. Volkov, about the kiss last nigh—”

Luca doesn’t let him finish.

“I love her.”

The room implodes. Flashes explode. People shout.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Elena Moretti is not a scandal. She is not a distraction. She is not leverage. She is not a weakness.”

He looks at me the way someone looks at sunlight after years in a cave.

“She is the reason I survived the darkest years of my life.”

Every camera catches it.

“She is not the woman beside me. She is the woman I belong to.”

My knees almost give out.

Flashes keep firing, reporters keep yelling, but Luca keeps speaking — calm, absolute, unshakable.

“The world can judge me. They can come for my company. They can tear apart my reputation. I don’t care.”

He lifts my hand to his chest — right over his heartbeat.

“What I will not allow — ever again — is anyone making Elena feel undeserving of being chosen.”

Not dramatic. Not shouted. Just truth.

A man who once lost everything for loving wrong…

choosing to lose everything again — this time for loving right.

I don’t think. I don’t calculate. I don’t check who’s watching.

I pull him down and kiss him — hard, desperate, real.

The room erupts.

Some cheer. Some gasp. Some record.

We don’t break apart.

His forehead rests against mine.

“I love you,” he breathes against my lips.

This time, I don’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

And just like that — not by force, not by silence, not by breaking, but by choosing…

the war ends.