The next few days passed in heavy silence.
Leonhart didn't visit the café.
Kevin didn't message first.
And Elian, like a shadow waiting at the edge of light, lurked in places that reminded Leonhart of old sins—lounges they used to frequent, rooftops where champagne once sparkled, and hotel lobbies where they'd walked in as strangers and left entangled.
The private investigator Leonhart hired reported quickly.
> "Elian's broke. Living in a rental unit near the west line. No job, no contacts. He's been asking around about you."
Leonhart stared at the report without speaking. The photo attached showed Elian smoking outside a run-down building, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in familiar arrogance despite the ruin.
That face still had a hold over him.
Not because of love.
But because of the lies he let himself believe when Elian smiled.
That night, Leonhart drove to the old apartment. The one he'd put Elian in during their contract. It was still unoccupied, sealed tight—like a mausoleum of indulgence and shame.
He stood at the doorway, eyes closed.
Just once more, he wanted to walk away from this place and never return. But the minute he turned, he saw Elian leaning against a car across the street.
Wearing that same silk shirt. Slightly wrinkled now. But unmistakably deliberate.
"So you still visit," Elian called out.
Leonhart didn't respond.
"I thought you'd miss the taste of me by now," Elian added, crossing the street slowly. "But maybe you're too busy babysitting bakery boy."
Leonhart's expression didn't change. "You're pathetic."
Elian tilted his head. "Maybe. But you looked for me."
"I came here to remind myself why I'll never make that mistake again."
Elian's smile faltered, just for a breath. "Is that what this is? Remorse? Or regret?"
Leonhart stepped closer, eyes cold. "I bought your loyalty. I never asked for your love. And when the money ran out, so did you. You're a transaction I canceled."
The words hit.
Elian laughed—but there was no humor in it. "You think he'll understand you like I did? You think that little boy with flour on his cheek will survive in your world?"
Leonhart's silence was sharp enough to cut.
Then, quietly: "He's not trying to survive me. He's trying to understand me. That's the difference."
He turned, leaving Elian in the back