Eleanor: You should never have come back here.

The air in the grand foyer felt impossibly heavy, smelling faintly of expensive beeswax and cold panic. Clara’s breath hitched in her throat, her lungs refusing to cooperate as the hard edge of the white marble balcony railing pressed brutally against her lower back. Only a second earlier, Eleanor’s steady, cold hands had planted firmly against Clara’s shoulders. There had been no shouting, no dramatic argument, just a quiet, calculated push. Clara’s white dress fluttered wildly like a captured bird as her center of gravity shifted past the point of no return.

High above the ground floor, Eleanor’s gray hair, neatly tied back, remained undisturbed. She did not lean over the railing to watch the catastrophe unfold; her dark blazer vanished smoothly from the edge. Clara fell backward into open space, the vast, vaulted ceiling of the luxury mansion spinning dizzyingly above her. The distance to the polished marble floor below stretched out like an eternity. Wind rushed past her ears, roaring in her mind, erasing all coherent thought except for a sharp, blinding terror. She was falling toward certain destruction, her twenty-five-year-old life narrowing down to the final few feet of air.

Deep within the labyrinthine halls of the mansion, Julian reacted before his conscious mind could fully process the sound of scuffling. Wearing his stark black shirt and black pants, his muscles coiled and propelled him forward. He sprinted down the long, white corridor, his leather-soled shoes slapping rhythmically against the floorboards. He rounded the corner just in time to see a flash of white descending from the upper tier.

Julian’s heart hammered against his ribs. He did not hesitate. Throwing himself toward the grand staircase, he vaulted over the bottom banister, sliding and diving with desperate athleticism. Time seemed to dilate. He extended his arms just as Clara’s falling body plummeted toward the lower level. With a jarring impact that winded him completely, Julian caught her. His arms locked around her waist and shoulders, absorbing the tremendous downward momentum inches above the lethal marble floor.

Clara gasped violently, her eyes wide with shock, staring blindly at the ceiling overhead as she registered that she was alive. Julian held her tightly against his chest, his own breathing ragged and uneven. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from Clara's trembling form, raising his eyes toward the upper balcony. Eleanor stood there, watching with an expression of icy detachment. Julian’s jaw tightened, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief. His voice was low, laced with absolute, controlled fury.