EPISODE 4
ELIAS
The morning after the engagement party, Paris was still far away, but Althea occupied every inch of my thoughts.
Hazel eyes, brown hair cascading over her shoulders, curves that moved with effortless grace even in the quietest moments—I couldn’t escape the memory of her.
The sapphire dress at the party, the subtle sway of her hips, and the calm, almost ethereal aura she carried had left me restless all night.
I hadn’t slept.
Not even an hour.
I stood in my hotel room, adjusting my tie, staring out at the soft glow of dawn.
The lights from the city shimmered over the horizon, but none of it mattered.
All I could think about was her.
All I could feel was the weight of what I had left unsaid, the years of avoidance, and the way she had walked away that night at the engagement party as if she could erase every moment we had shared.
And now I was about to board a plane with her, mere feet away.
The thought alone tightened my chest and made my palms sweat.
⸻
The terminal buzzed with the usual chaos of travelers and rolling suitcases, but all I could see was her.
She moved with her usual poise, hazel eyes scanning the departure boards with quiet precision, brown hair loosely braided to fall over her shoulders.
Her lavender dress clung to her curves with understated elegance, a calmness that belied the tension in the air around her.
I muttered under my breath, almost unconsciously, “Thea…”
She stiffened immediately.
“I’m not ‘Thea,’” she said sharply, controlled, and unmistakably serious.
I held my hands up in mock surrender.
“Not… okay. Old habit.”
Her eyes narrowed, scanning me as if measuring whether I had truly changed.
I hadn’t, and she knew it.
⸻
We were seated near each other, not side by side, but close enough that every subtle movement she made pressed against my chest with invisible weight.
The plane began to taxi, engines humming and vibrating through the floor, and I felt that familiar tightness in my stomach.
Althea’s voice broke the silence.
“Relax. It’s just a plane,” she said softly, casual yet coaxing.
I tried to shrug it off.
“It’s not ‘just a plane,’” I muttered, eyes fixed on the window.
She tilted her head, as she always did when she studied me, a small, knowing smirk tugging at her lips.
“Too much caffeine? Or… flight nerves?”
I snapped before I thought.
“You wouldn’t understand!”
Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second—surprise, maybe even hurt—but then softened.
“Maybe I do,” she said quietly, voice gentle.
“You hate flying, don’t you?”
My chest tightened.
“…What?”
“You said it once. Before. You’re scared,” she continued, calm and steady.
“You hate feeling powerless. Being up there, suspended in the air…”
Heat rose in my chest.
“…Maybe,” I admitted, unable to hide it.
She lightly tapped the armrest between us.
“Hey. Breathe. Focus on something else. Look out the window. Watch the clouds. Or talk to me.”
I blinked, taken aback by the calm in her voice, the way she distracted me without mocking me, without pushing, without judgment.
She made it… bearable.
Not easy, but possible.
We started talking quietly.
She asked about my day, my flight preferences, about things utterly unrelated to our past.
I could feel the tight coil of panic loosening slightly as I focused on her words, her soft hazel eyes, and the curves of her body in the lavender silk that somehow seemed to glow even under the plane’s sterile lights.
⸻
But old wounds have a way of surfacing, no matter how carefully they are smoothed over.
One careless comment, a remembered slight, and suddenly the quiet conversation turned sharp.
“You never really change, do you?” she asked, not mean, but pointed.
I bristled.
“What does that even mean?”
“You run. Always. From everything. From me. From feelings. From… yourself,” she said, voice low but fierce.
I clenched the armrests.
“You think you know me? You think you understand my choices?”
“Yes. I do!” she snapped.
“Because I’ve seen them. I’ve felt them. And you—”
I cut her off, voice rising without thought, “And you have no idea what it’s like to feel trapped in your own head! To be terrified of… everything you can’t control!”
Her eyes widened, and she faltered for a moment, stunned by my outburst.
I immediately regretted it.
I hadn’t snapped because of her.
I’d snapped because of fear.
Fear of flying, fear of losing her again, fear of the past that always followed us like a shadow.
By the time the plane touched down, the tension between us had stretched to the breaking point.
She hadn’t said much in response—just leaned back, arms crossed, curves taut in the lavender silk.
I kept my eyes forward, trying to reconcile the anger, guilt, and longing that coiled in my chest.
The argument was interrupted briefly by movement near the aisle.
“Elias! Ryan!” a smooth, confident voice called out.
Lucian.
My best friend, Ryan’s closest ally.
Tall, golden hair, impeccable posture, effortless charm.
The golden boy type.
His eyes immediately flicked to the aisle where Mira sat, her fiery curls bouncing as she tucked a strand behind her ear.
That small, polite flicker of interest didn’t escape me.
Lucian was smitten—subtly, respectfully—but clearly captivated by her energy and confidence.
Mira didn’t notice yet, fully absorbed in her own world, but I caught the moment and smirked slightly.
Golden boy, meet fiery girl.
Fate, quietly setting itself into motion.
⸻
The city lights of Paris gleamed beneath the plane as we descended.
The tension, the argument, the fear, the regret—it all settled heavier in my chest.
By the time we reached the resort, the bustling noise of luggage, chatter, and cars could not drown out the weight of my thoughts.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her—the way she had distracted me, guided me through my panic, handled my fear without judgment.
And how I had repaid her with sharp words.
The guilt pressed down, relentless, leaving me restless even as the hotel staff ushered us to the rooms.
⸻
Sleep proved impossible.
I wandered out onto the balcony, letting the cool Paris night wash over me.
Somewhere below, music drifted upward—a piano melody, soft and deliberate, about love against all odds.
Aria leaned against the railing of the adjacent balcony.
She didn’t notice me at first, lost in thought, hair brushing her shoulders, green eyes reflecting the faint city glow.
I lingered in the shadows.
I couldn’t approach Althea—not tonight.
Not yet.
The balcony, the wind, the music… it was a reprieve from the tension I carried, a chance to think, to plan, to reflect.
She glanced at me, startled, then softened when she realized it was me.
“Can’t sleep either?” she asked quietly.
“No,” I admitted.
“Too much… going on. Too many things I couldn’t fix tonight.”
She nodded, understanding the weight behind my words.
“Complicated,” she said.
We stood silently for a long moment.
The distant music, the soft wind, the lights below—it all felt suspended in time.
I thought of Althea—hazel eyes, brown hair, curves accentuated by her lavender dress, and the subtle way she had calmed me on the plane.
Her patience, her grace, her quiet strength—it all pressed against me now, mingled with guilt over my harsh words.
I exhaled slowly, letting the night air carry the frustration and ache inside me.
I had failed her tonight in small ways—lost my temper, let fear take over—but soon I would have to see her again.
Soon, I would have to face the truth between us.
And this time, I wouldn’t let her walk away.
Not in Paris.
Not ever.