ETHAN

From the moment she walked into La Brisa, I forgot how to fucking breathe.

Elora. That was not just Elora. That was something else—something dangerous, refined, untouchable. Hair styled like she walked off a runway shoot, jet-black and glistening in soft waves that framed her face like it had been painted into a masterpiece.

Her lips were glossed, just enough to draw attention but not invite a kiss. And that goddamn dress. A deep, rich royal blue that clung to her like a second skin and flared just enough at the bottom to remind you she was elegance in motion. Form-fitting but tasteful. Expensive. I knew that fabric, that...