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The tasting was supposed to be professional. Clean lines. Crystal stemware. A checklist of hors d'oeuvres and main courses paired with overpriced wine.
But when Elena and Grayson arrived at the rooftop terrace of Celestia, one of Manhattan's most exclusive venues, the mood felt anything but clinical.
The sunset painted the skyline in hues of amber and lavender. The tables were draped in velvet. String lights danced above them like stars waiting to fall.
Elena wore a navy jumpsuit that hugged her curves and framed her collarbones just right. Grayson, dressed in a charcoal suit with no tie, looked like he belonged in a magazine ad - except colder. And quieter. Like a man too familiar with solitude.
She watched as he barely touched the smoked salmon canapés. "Are you going to eat anything, or just judge it all from a distance?"
His lips curved slightly. "Judging's safer. Fewer surprises."
"You don't like surprises?"
"Not the kind that involve people."
Elena tilted her head. "That's a lonely way to live."
He didn't flinch. "Lonely is predictable."
She let out a soft exhale, swirling the wine in her glass. "You talk like someone who's been hurt and built a fortress instead of healing."
He looked at her - really looked at her.
"And you talk like someone who still wants to believe people can be saved."
Silence fell between them, but it wasn't awkward. It was full - loaded with tension, curiosity, and the weight of shared pain they hadn't confessed.
"My father was a drunk," Elena said suddenly, her voice low. "He taught me early that the people who say they love you can also be the ones who break you hardest."
Grayson's eyes darkened, his voice quiet. "Mine taught me that silence is safer than the truth."
They sat in that silence for a long time, the city bustling beneath them.
And in that rooftop twilight, beneath the hum of distant traffic and the shimmer of candlelight, something shifted.
They weren't just client and contractor anymore.
They were two broken pieces trying to see if they might fit.