He didn't wait until eight PM.
Elara was in the gallery at six-thirty, closing up after a day of avoiding phone calls and staring at inventory she couldn't focus on. Leo was upstairs with Sophie, who'd come over with ice cream and sympathy and strict instructions that Elara was not to make any major life decisions until she'd slept.
She was locking the front door when she saw the reflection in the glass.
Liam. Standing on the sidewalk. Watching.
Her hand froze on the lock.
He moved toward the door. She should lock it. Should turn off the lights and pretend she hadn't seen him.
She opened it instead.
"You're early." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I said eight."
"I couldn't wait."
The honesty disarmed her.
He stepped inside. She backed up instinctively, and he closed the door behind him with a quiet click that sounded too much like finality.
"We need to talk," he said.
"That was the plan. In an hour and a half."
"About the photo."
"I know what it's about."
"Do you?" He moved deeper into the gallery. Not toward her. Just... occupying space. Filling it. "Because my PR team has fielded three hundred and forty-seven media requests today. The board wants a statement. Your gallery's been flooded with calls. This is a crisis."
"A crisis you created."
"I created?" His laugh was harsh. "I danced with you. You're the one who looked at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you were drowning and I was air."
The words from the terrace. He'd said them last night. Now they were immortalized in a photograph seen by millions.
"I didn't—" She stopped. Because what could she say? The photo didn't lie. "We need to manage this. Put out a statement. 'Mr. Vance and Ms. Hart remain committed to co-parenting their son. Any speculation about reconciliation is unfounded.'"
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
"Stop calling me that!"
"Then stop lying!" His control cracked. "You felt it. On that dance floor. On the terrace. You felt what I felt. The pull. The connection. The fact that five years and all your carefully constructed walls didn't kill what we had."
"What we had—"
"Is still there. Admit it."
"No."
"Elara—"
"No!" She moved away from him, putting a sculpture between them. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to waltz back into my life, manipulate me into your gala, dance with me like—like we're still—" Her voice broke. "This is your fault. All of it. The photo. The media circus. The fact that I can't think straight anymore. Your fault."
"My fault?" He moved around the sculpture. Prowling. "I made you dance with me. I made your body remember mine. I made you look at me like I matter."
"You manipulated—"
"I reminded you." He was close now. Too close. "Of who we were before I destroyed it. Of what we had before I was too broken to see it."
"We had nothing—"
"We had everything!" His hand came up, nearly touching her face before he caught himself. Dropped it. "I was just too much of a coward to admit I needed you. Too convinced that needing anyone made me weak. So I pushed you away. Called you names. Treated you like you were disposable."
"You called me a pet."
The words hung between them. The wound that had never healed.
"I know." His voice roughened. "And I've spent five years hating myself for it. Five years trying to become someone worthy of the woman I destroyed. Someone Leo could be proud of. Someone you might—" He stopped.
"Might what?"
"Forgive. Eventually. Maybe."
She wanted to stay angry. Wanted to hold onto the rage that had sustained her through pregnancy and single motherhood and building a life from nothing.
But looking at him now—at the rawness in his face, the desperate honesty—she couldn't find it.
"This isn't about forgiveness," she said quietly. "This is about you wanting what you can't have."
"No. This is about me wanting what I threw away and finally understanding its value."
"I'm not a possession—"
"I know. God, I know." He moved closer. She had nowhere left to retreat. Her back hit the wall. "You're a person. A brilliant, fierce, impossible person who saw through all my armor to the broken thing underneath. Who made me feel human when I'd convinced myself I was just a machine designed to win."
His hand came up. Cupped her face. She should push him away. Should enforce boundaries.
She didn't move.
"You felt it," he whispered. "Last night. Tell me you felt it."
"I felt—" What? Chemistry? Attraction? The ghost of who they'd been? "Muscle memory. Nothing more."
"Liar."
"Liam—"
"You kissed me back. On that terrace. Before Reed interrupted. You were going to let me kiss you."
"I was confused—"
"You were honest. For the first time in five years, you stopped running and admitted you still feel this."
"I don't—"
"Then prove it." His thumb brushed her cheek. "Push me away. Tell me to leave. Walk away right now. If you don't feel anything, it should be easy."
She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His proximity was intoxicating. His touch burned.
"See?" His voice dropped to something raw. Broken. "You can't. Because your body knows what your mind won't admit."
"This is wrong—"
"I know."
"I hate you—"
"I know that too."
"So why—" Her hands came up, pressed against his chest. To push him away. To pull him closer. She didn't know. "Why can't I breathe when you're this close?"
"Because we're inevitable. You. Me. This thing between us that won't die no matter how many years pass or how many Alexander Reeds stand between us."
"Don't bring Xander into this—"
"Why not? He's the reason you're so determined to deny this. The safe choice. The good man who won't hurt you."
"He wouldn't. He's been here—"
"I know. For five years. Being everything I wasn't. And you care about him. Maybe you even love him." His forehead touched hers. "But you don't love him the way you love me."
"I don't love you—"
"Yes. You do. You hate that you do. You wish you didn't. But you do."
"You're insane—"
"Then prove me wrong." His lips hovered near hers. "Push me away. Tell me to leave. Do it."
She should. Every logical part of her brain screamed to do exactly that.
But her hands, still pressed against his chest, had curled into his shirt. Holding. Not pushing.
"Elara." Her name was worship and desperation and question. "Tell me to stop."
"I—"
"Tell me you don't feel this. Tell me that photo lied. Tell me five years killed what we had."
She couldn't. God help her, she couldn't.
"Tell me," he whispered against her lips, "that you don't want me to kiss you right now."
The words wouldn't come.
And in her silence, he found his answer.
He kissed her.
Not gentle. Not tentative. A claiming. A punishment. A desperate question asked with lips and teeth and five years of want.
His mouth crashed into hers like a man drowning. Possessive. Demanding. Everything about it wrong and perfect and devastating.
She should push him away.
She kissed him back.
For one searing, terrible second, she gave in. Her hands fisted in his shirt. Her body arched into his. Her mouth opened under his.
And it was everything. Muscle memory and new want and the undeniable truth that her body had never forgotten his.
His hands slid into her hair, angling her head. His body pressed hers against the wall. The kiss deepened—desperate, angry, full of five years of loss.
She tasted regret. Longing. Home.
Then reality crashed in.
What was she doing?
She shoved him. Hard.
He stumbled back, breathing ragged, eyes dark with want.
"No." Her voice shook. "No, we can't—I can't—"
"Elara—"
"Get out."
"You kissed me back—"
"I made a mistake."
"Did you?" He moved toward her again. "Because that felt like the first honest thing you've done since I walked back into your life."
"It was a mistake," she repeated, but even she could hear the lie in it.
"You're terrified." He said it softly. Certainly. "You're terrified because you felt it. The connection. The pull. Everything you've been denying just proved itself true."
"I felt—" What? Her body's betrayal? The terrible, undeniable fact that kissing him felt like coming home? "Chemistry. Nostalgia. Nothing more."
"Keep telling yourself that."
"Liam, this can't happen. I have Leo to think about. I have a life I've built. I have—"
"A safe life with a safe man who makes you feel safe things." He stepped closer. She had nowhere to retreat. "But safe isn't what you want. Safe isn't what makes your heart race. Safe isn't what made you kiss me back like you were starving."
"Stop—"
"I'm not the man I was five years ago. I'm trying. I'm learning. I'm doing everything you asked." His hand came up, hovering near her face. Not touching. "But I can't make you believe it. Can't make you admit you still feel this. Only you can decide if you're brave enough to risk it again."
"I can't."
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Both."
He nodded slowly. Acceptance. Resignation. But underneath: determination.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll back off. Give you space. Let you pretend that kiss didn't happen." He moved toward the door. Stopped. Looked back. "But Elara? That photo isn't going away. The press won't stop asking questions. And eventually, you're going to have to answer the one that matters."
"What question?"
"Do you want to spend the rest of your life pretending you're over me? Or do you want to find out if we can be something real this time?"
He left before she could answer.
The door closed. The lock clicked. Silence rushed in.
Elara stood against the wall, fingers touching her lips, tasting him.
Her phone buzzed. Text from Sophie: Leo's asking when you're coming up. Also, did I just see Liam leave the gallery looking wrecked?
She ignored it.
Walked to the mirror beside the door.
Her lipstick was smudged. Her hair messed from his hands. Her eyes wide and dark and full of want she couldn't hide.
She looked like a woman who'd been thoroughly kissed.
By the wrong man.
Or the right one.
She still didn't know.
But her lips knew. Her body knew. Her traitorous, stupid heart knew.
She'd kissed Liam Vance.
And she'd liked it.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Liam sat in his car outside the gallery, hands gripping the steering wheel, breathing like he'd run a marathon.
She'd kissed him back.
For one perfect, devastating second, she'd given in. Let herself feel it. Admitted with her body what her words refused.
She'd kissed him back.
Then she'd pushed him away. Called it a mistake. Retreated behind walls built from five years of pain.
But the kiss had happened. The truth had been revealed.
She still wanted him.
Hated that she wanted him. Feared it. Would deny it until forced to confront it.
But wanted him.
That was enough. For now.
His phone rang. David.
"Sir? The board—"
"Tell them I'm unavailable."
"But—"
"The photo stays. No statement. No retraction. Let them speculate."
"That's risky—"
"I don't care." He started the engine. "Where's Alexander Reed right now?"
A pause. "His office. Why?"
"Because I'm about to have a conversation with him."
"Sir, is that wise?"
"Probably not. Do it anyway."
He ended the call.
Time to eliminate the competition.