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The platform rose smoothly into the night sky, cables humming softly as the city fell away beneath them. Two hundred feet up, the world looked different. Smaller. Like they were the only two people who mattered.
A waiter appeared beside their table, seemingly from nowhere. Elara watched as he stepped onto a smaller platform that lowered him back down to ground level. Minutes later, he returned the same way, riding up with their first course balanced perfectly on a tray.
It was surreal. Dining suspended in the air while staff moved up and down like they were part of some elaborate stage
production.
Marcus watched her take it all in, his expression unreadable.
The waiter handed them menus. Leather–bound. Heavy. Elara opened hers and nearly choked.
Wagyu beef. Sixty thousand dollars.
She blinked. Read it again. Sixty thousand. For one dish.
That was a year’s worth of groceries. Maybe more. Her entire food budget for twelve months sitting on a plate.
“What’s wrong?” Marcus asked.
“Nothing.” She closed the menu quickly. “Just looking.”
“Order whatever you want.”
“I don’t know what half of this is.”
“Then pick something and find out.” He leaned back in his chair. “I have the money. Don’t overthink it.”
Right. Of course he did.
The waiter returned. Marcus ordered for both of them, his French flawless. Elara caught maybe three words.
“And champagne,” Marcus added. “The 2008 Dom Pérignon.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared back down.
Minutes later, champagne arrived. Golden and sparkling in crystal flutes that probably cost more than her monthly rent.
Marcus raised his glass. “To new beginnings.”
Elara lifted hers. Took a small sip. The bubbles fizzed against her tongue, expensive and cold.
She set the glass down.
Marcus noticed immediately. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine.”
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“You took one sip.”
“I’d prefer fresh juice. Or water. Something without alcohol.”
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His eyebrow raised slightly. “If you think I’m planning to take advantage of you when you’re tipsy, that’s not happening.”
“I know.”
“Or do you have champagne PTSD from the fire exit?”
He smiled. Actually smiled. The expression transformed his face, softening the sharp edges she’d grown used to.
Fire exit.
The memory hit without warning. His hands gripping her waist. His mouth on her neck. The way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment. The rough brick against her back. His fingers inside her. The sound
he’d made when….
“Elara.”
She blinked. Marcus was watching her, that smile still playing at his lips.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” She cleared her throat. “No PTSD. I just can’t drink champagne right now.”
“Because of the alcohol?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t drink alcohol?”
“I do. I like alcohol. I just can’t right now because I’m pre…..”
His phone rang.
Marcus pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. “Sorry. I need to take this.”
Elara nodded, relief flooding through her.
Close. Too close.
“Yes?” Marcus answered. His tone shifted immediately. Professional. Clipped. “Okay. Let them go ahead and submit.
Thank you.”
He ended the call and set the phone face–down on the table. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Nothing important.” She picked up her water glass. “Just that I prefer juice tonight.”
The waiter returned with their first course. Something delicate and artistic that Elara couldn’t identify. She ate slowly, letting Marcus carry the conversation.
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He asked about her college. Where she’d studied. What she’d majored in.
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Things he probably already knew from whatever background check he’d run. But he asked anyway, and she answered,
and somehow it felt natural.
They talked about books. Movies. Places they’d traveled. Marcus had been everywhere. Paris. Tokyo. Dubai. Elara had been to New Jersey once.
He didn’t laugh at her. Just asked what she’d liked about it.
The conversation flowed easier than it should have. She found herself laughing at something he said about a disastrous business trip to London. He smiled when she told him about her first week as his assistant, when she’d accidentally
scheduled him for three meetings at the same time.
“You were terrified,” he said.
“I thought you’d fire me on the spot.”
“I considered it.”
“Liar.”
“I’m serious.” But his eyes were warm. Almost amused. “You were the fifth assistant that month. I assumed you’d quit like
the others.”
“And yet here we are.”
“Here we are.”
For a moment, suspended two hundred feet above the city with the stars overhead and Marcus Thorne smiling at her like she was someone worth knowing, Elara forgot this was fake.
It felt real.
She caught herself and looked away.
“We should probably get our story straight,” she said. “In case people ask.”
“Right.” Marcus leaned forward. “What are we telling them?”
“That we’ve been dating. Secretly. Didn’t want the office to know.”
“How long?”
“Six months?”
“Make it a year. More believable.”
“Okay. A year. We kept it quiet because of the workplace dynamic.”
“And now we’re engaged.”
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“Right.”
The word felt heavy. Engaged. Like something real instead of a contract clause.
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Their main courses arrived. Perfectly plated. Elara ate without tasting much, her mind spinning through the story they’d
just created
By the time dessert came, she was exhausted. The adrenaline from earlier had worn off, replaced by a bone–deep
tiredness she couldn’t shake.
The sleeping vitamins.
She’d taken them that afternoon, trying to rest before tonight. But her mind had been too occupied. Too anxious. They
hadn’t kicked in.
Until now.
Her limbs felt heavy. Her thoughts moved slower. Like she was underwater.
Marcus signed the check and stood. “Ready?”
Elara nodded and pushed herself up. The platform began its descent.
The wind hit harder on the way down. Cold and sharp. Marcus noticed her shiver and shrugged off his jacket without a word, draping it over her shoulders.
It smelled like him. Cedar and something else she couldn’t name.
When they reached the ground, Elara tried to walk toward the car. Her legs felt wrong. Unsteady. Like they belonged to
someone else.
She stumbled.
Marcus caught her elbow. “What did you take?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t drink. But you’re walking like you’re drunk.”
“Sleeping vitamins.” The words came out slurred. “This afternoon. Didn’t work then. Working now.”
“Christ.” He bent down and pulled off her heels, holding them in one hand along with her clutch. “Stop walking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Before she could argue, Marcus scooped her up. One arm under her knees, the other around her back.
Elara’s head dropped against his shoulder. She was too tired to protest.
Click, Click
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Two camera flashes cut through the darkness.
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Marcus didn’t stop. Just carried her to the car, opened the door with one hand, and settled her into the passenger seat.
The door closed.
And everything went dark.
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