Elara Moore learned early that invisibility could be a kind of armor.

It was the reason she kept her head down as she stepped into the grand ballroom of the Blackwood International Charity Gala, the crystal chandeliers blazing overhead like a thousand watchful eyes. It was the reason she smoothed the simple black dress she’d borrowed from her roommate elegant enough to blend in, plain enough to be forgotten. And it was the reason she reminded herself, for the third time that night, that she did not belong here.

She was only filling in.

One missed flight. One desperate call from a friend. One last-minute favor that landed her in a room full of billionaires, politicians, and people whose shoes probably cost more than her monthly rent.

“Elara, tray,” the event coordinator whispered sharply as she passed.

Elara nodded and took the silver tray of champagne flutes, steadying her breathing. Just a few hours. Serve, smile, disappear. By morning, this night would be nothing more than a strange story she might never tell.

She moved through the crowd carefully, eyes lowered, listening to fragments of conversations...stock acquisitions, offshore accounts, private jets. A different universe. One she had learned to admire from a distance, the way one admired constellations they could never touch.

Then it happened.

She turned too quickly.

The collision was soft but unmistakable, her elbow brushing a solid chest, the tray tilting dangerously as golden liquid sloshed over the rim of a glass.

“Oh !” Elara gasped, instinctively reaching out.

A strong hand closed over the tray, steadying it before disaster struck.

The world seemed to pause.

“I’ve got it.”

The voice was calm. Low. Controlled in a way that suggested nothing ever surprised him.

Elara looked up.

And forgot how to breathe.

He was tall impossibly so with dark hair brushed back from a sharp, commanding face. His suit fit him like it had been tailored around his authority, not his body. But it was his eyes that held her captive deep, assessing, unreadable. Eyes that looked like they were used to being obeyed.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quickly, heat flooding her cheeks. “I didn’t see...”

“That’s usually how accidents happen,” he replied, not unkindly.

A corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

She took the tray back, fingers brushing his for the briefest moment.

Something sparked.

She pulled away too fast, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” he asked, gaze lingering on her face as if committing it to memory.

“Yes. I mean yes, sir.”

Sir?

Why had she said that?

His eyes darkened slightly, amused. “I’m not that old.”

“I didn’t....I just...” Elara exhaled, mortified. “I’ll get you a fresh glass.”

He watched her go, and she felt his gaze like a weight between her shoulder blades.

She should have stopped there. Should have handed him the drink and vanished into the crowd.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Sebastian Blackwood had mastered the art of detachment.

At thirty-four, he had built an empire that spanned continents, crushed competitors twice his age, and learned through brutal experience that emotions were liabilities. Love most of all.

So when a woman with soft eyes and nervous grace nearly spilled champagne on him, he expected irritation.

What he did not expect was interest.

There was something different about her. She wasn’t trying to impress him. Didn’t recognize him. Didn’t look at him like he was a prize to be claimed or a ladder to climb.

She looked at him like he was just… a man.

When she returned with a fresh glass, her composure slightly steadier, Sebastian took it from her, fingers lingering deliberately this time.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” She hesitated, then added, “And… thank you for saving me from public humiliation.”

“Happy to be of service.”

That earned him a small smile. Real. Unpolished.

Dangerous.

“What’s your name?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She blinked, clearly surprised. “Elara.”

No last name. Interesting.

“I’m....” He paused.

Sebastian Blackwood was a name that shifted rooms, altered behavior, invited agendas.

“I’m Sebastian.”

Just Sebastian.

Her smile didn’t change. No widening of eyes. No sudden calculation.

“Well,” she said lightly, “thank you again, Sebastian.”

And just like that, she walked away.

Sebastian stared after her, unsettled.

He did not chase women. He did not indulge impulses.

And yet....

“Sebastian.”

He turned as his business partner approached, already launching into negotiations and numbers. Sebastian listened, responded, nodded in all the right places.

But his mind kept drifting back to soft brown eyes and a voice that didn’t ask him for anything.

When the gala finally ended, hours later, Sebastian found himself scanning the room.

She was gone.

Disappointment, sharp and unexpected....settled in his chest.

He should have known better than to think fate would be generous.

Elara had just stepped out into the cool night air when she heard him.

“Elara.”

She turned.

Sebastian stood a few feet away, jacket slung over his arm, expression unreadable. The city lights framed him like something unreal.

“I was hoping I’d find you,” he said.

Her heart skipped. “Did I forget something?”

“No.” A beat. “I did.”

She frowned slightly.

“Dinner,” he said. “Or coffee. Or a walk. Whatever you prefer.”

Her first instinct was no. This was a bad idea wrapped in charm and expensive fabric.

But then she remembered how invisible she usually felt. How small her world had become. How tonight had made her feel… seen.

“Just one night,” she said quietly, more to herself than him.

His gaze sharpened. “One night.”

They walked.

They talked.

They laughed, really laughed, over street food and stories that had nothing to do with wealth or power. She told him about architecture, about how buildings were stories frozen in time. He told her about pressure, about expectations, about the loneliness at the top.

Time blurred.

When they stopped outside a quiet hotel, reality finally caught up with them.

“This is where I’m staying,” he said.

Elara met his eyes. She saw the question there but also the restraint.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” she said.

“I know.”

No promises. No future.

Just honesty.

The elevator doors closed behind them.

And when the night finally claimed them, it did so gently...without names, without expectations, without knowing it would leave behind something permanent.

Morning came too quickly.

Elara slipped out before dawn, heart heavy but strangely full.

She told herself it was just one night.

She was wrong.

And somewhere high above the city, Sebastian Blackwood woke with a rare, unfamiliar feeling in his chest

Regret.