Chapter 104 - 0104: I Just Want To Feel Love

Chapter 104: Chapter 0104: I Just Want To Feel Love

Elena’s Point Of View

I couldn’t remember how long I’d stayed crouched in that dark, narrow hallway off the VIP lounge. Time had lost all meaning the moment I’d fled the ballroom, and now the minutes simply pooled around me like water.

My knees ached, pressed hard against the cold parquet floor, the chill seeping through skin and bone until it felt like it had settled somewhere deeper, somewhere I couldn’t name.

My emerald silk dress was crumpled beneath me, ruining months of careful tailoring, but the suffocating burn in my chest was far worse than any physical discomfort. That ache had nothing to do with fabric or thread; it lived somewhere beneath my ribs, gnawing steadily at whatever composure I had left.

The silence pressed down on me like a physical weight, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of my ragged, uneven breathing and the muffled, distant thud of the bassline from the main ballroom.

Somewhere beyond that wall, three hundred of the city’s wealthiest people were still laughing, still drinking, utterly unaware that their hostess had shattered into pieces just a few yards away.

My hands shook violently where they rested against the wall. My fingernails dug into the expensive wallpaper, clawing at the damask pattern as if I could physically peel away everything that had just happened... the humiliation, the terror, the sickening betrayals.

I wanted to tear the memory out of my own skull, to leave it bleeding on the floor and walk away without it. But memories didn’t work that way, and mine clung to me like a second skin.

I dragged the back of my trembling hand across my face, smearing the heat of my tears. A choked, broken whisper escaped my lips, meant for no one but the empty dark.

"I’m done crying for men who treat me like a possession."

The words stung my own ears. They sounded so small, so fragile, as though some other, weaker version of myself had spoken them. I gritted my teeth, swallowed the metallic taste of my own misery, and forced myself to say them again. Firmer this time. Loud enough to ring off the narrow walls.

"I am done crying for them."

This time, the words landed with a little more weight, a little more truth, though my body still trembled with the effort of believing them. I pushed myself up slowly. My legs quivered under the heavy silk skirt, threatening to give out, but I planted my palm flat against the wall and forced my spine to straighten.

I smoothed my hair back with cold, shaking fingers, took three agonizingly deep breaths, and turned toward the gilded mirror hanging at the end of the corridor.

My reflection stared back at me, a look-alike of a ghost. My eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with raw pink, but miraculously, my dark eyeliner hadn’t bled. Only my lipstick was smudged - a blurred, telltale stain creeping over my lower lip.

The ghost of Jaxx’s mouth. The ghost of his breath on my throat. I stared at that stranger in the glass for a long moment, searching her face for some sign of the composed, formidable woman I was supposed to be, and found only wreckage staring back.

I dragged my thumb across my lip, pressing hard until the skin stung, wiping away the dark crimson shadow until it looked clean. Passable.

"Good," I whispered to the woman in the glass, forcing my mouth to twist into a sharp, bitter smile. "No one will ever know."

I squared my shoulders, smoothed down the front of my dress, and stepped back out into the light, praying my voice wouldn’t betray me the way my knees just had.

The bright chandeliers hit me like a physical blow, blinding and exposing. For a split second, my instincts screamed at me to shrink back into the shadows, to run out the back exit and disappear into the rain-soaked night.

But I didn’t. I lifted my chin, set my jaw, and walked forward into the lion’s den, reminding myself with every step that I had built this empire with my own two hands and I would not lose it to a moment of weakness.

My eyes flicked instinctively toward the high-top table near the bar where Graham had been standing earlier.

Empty. Graham was gone.

A sharp, humorless laugh slipped from my throat, cracking around the edges. "Of course," I murmured under my breath.

Why would he stay? He had only come to parade himself before the city’s elite... husband of the year, the powerful, devoted partner, the perfect mask. A husband who could vanish into thin air the second the official photo-ops closed, leaving me to handle the political wreckage alone.

I could already imagine him in Lilian’s apartment, shedding that mask like a snake sheds its skin, becoming someone entirely different behind her closed door.

I forced a polite, hollow smile onto my face, pretending to blend seamlessly into the bustling crowd, though every single step was pure agony. My dress swished around my bare thighs, and the stark, terrifying knowledge that I was wearing no panties underneath made every stride feel like a tightrope walk over an abyss.

My heart hammered against my ribs so loudly I was convinced the executives passing by could hear it. I felt exposed, stripped bare, as if the secret shame Jaxx had forced upon me was stamped across my skin in glowing ink, visible to anyone who cared to look closely enough.

Finally, I reached my table. Without hesitation, I grabbed the glass of neat bourbon waiting on the linen tablecloth and downed it in one long, reckless gulp.

The liquor burned down my throat, hot, harsh, and punishing... exactly what I needed to shock my nervous system back into order. I wanted to leave. God, every nerve in my body begged me to sprint to the parking lot and vanish into the rain.

But this was my gala. My sweat, my sleepless nights, my endless corporate maneuvering had built this night from nothing. Leaving early would mean handing the narrative to Graham, to Jaxx, to every vulture in tailored suits waiting for Elena Sinclair to slip.

So I stayed.

Minutes bled into each other, stretching into half an hour of pure psychological torture. The clinking of crystal, the murmurs of high-stakes investments, the polite, calculated laughter of business associates wrapped around me like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

I smiled on command. I shook hands. I accepted glowing congratulations from people whose words tasted like ash, each syllable a small, hollow performance in a night already overflowing with them.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Sinclair, the turnout tonight is truly remarkable."

"Your vision for the new acquisition is inspiring, Elena."

"We simply must schedule a lunch next week. I have a cross-border proposal I think you’ll find fascinating."

"Thank you so much," I replied smoothly, offering my custom business card, exchanging fluid pleasantries. My lips curved into the exact angle of corporate charm, but inside, I was breaking into microscopic shards. I wanted to grab them by the lapels and scream that I was drowning, that the woman they admired was dissolving in real time right in front of them, but instead, I pulled the mask tighter, lifting it higher, until my jaw throbbed from the sheer effort of holding it up.

When the event finally reached its official conclusion, a sharp, thin wave of relief washed over me. The crowd began to filter toward the coat check, expensive perfume and heavy cologne mixing into a dizzying, nauseating haze.

I lingered another twenty minutes, dutifully playing the gracious host because appearances demanded perfection. I gave them my best smiles, my most convincing lies, until my lungs felt completely raw and my cheeks ached from the effort of feigned joy.

At last, as the final limousine pulled away from the valet, I exhaled a breath I felt like I’d been holding for hours.

I turned to my assistant, Clara, who had been hovering nearby with her tablet, quietly managing the event logistics. Her dark eyes were sharp, observant, far too knowing for my comfort as she took in my pale face. Clara had worked for me for three years; she knew my tells better than almost anyone, and I hated that even now, drained and hollow, I couldn’t fully hide from her.

"Mrs. Sinclair... are you alright? You look exhausted. Should I call your driver?"

"I’m fine, Clara," I told her softly, keeping my tone clipped and even despite the tremor in my chest. "You’ll take care of the wrap-up details with the venue management?"

"Of course. Everything is handled."

"Good. I’m leaving."

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked away, my heels clicking loudly against the polished marble floor. Each step echoed through the emptying hall, carrying me further from the wreckage of the night, though I suspected the wreckage would follow me regardless of how far or fast I walked.

The cool, damp night air hit me the second I pushed through the heavy glass exit doors, striking my heated skin like a slap. Rain was falling in a steady, relentless drizzle, slicking the pavement and catching the amber glow of the streetlights.

My chest felt agonizingly tight, my heels clicking rhythmically on the wet concrete as I crossed the executive lot. I kept my head held high, my face expressionless, because even the dark shadows felt like eyes watching my every move, cataloguing every crack in my composure for later use against me.

When I reached my matte-gray Porsche, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely press the keyless entry. I opened the door, slid into the low leather driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut.

The silence inside the cabin hit me like a physical wall.

No clinking champagne flutes. No fake congratulations. No Jaxx’s dark, predatory smirk whispering filthy promises in my ear. No Graham’s cold, indifferent eyes judging my failures.

Just me. Entirely alone in the dark.

And somehow, that silence was a thousand times worse.

My hands gripped the leather steering wheel, tightening until my knuckles turned stark white and my finger joints popped. I dropped my forehead flat against the cold center of the wheel, squeezed my eyes shut, and let out a broken, ragged hitch of air. I couldn’t breathe. The dark spiral came fast, sharp, and utterly merciless, dragging me down into the cold depths of my own reality.

My life has never been fair. Not once. Not for a single day.

Family? What family? I was an outcast before I even knew what the word meant. My mother didn’t love me... she manipulated me. To her, I was never a daughter; I was a financial investment, a bargaining chip, a cash cow to maintain her lifestyle and settle her debts.

Every kiss on the cheek she’d ever given me was measured against what she could extract from my bank account in return. I used to wonder, as a child, what it might feel like to be loved without conditions attached, and even now, decades later, I still didn’t know the answer.

And Graham...

My throat clamped shut, a violent, physical ache blooming behind my ribs as his name dragged across my mind. Graham Sinclair. The man I had loved for nearly half my life. The man I built an empire alongside. I gave him every piece of my soul, every ounce of my loyalty, and what did he do? He shattered me into dust.

Because I couldn’t give him an heir. Because my body failed. Because my womb was a hollow, empty vault that couldn’t produce the Sinclair legacy he craved.

So he went elsewhere. He went to Lilian.

He took my betrayal, packaged it up, and brought her into our peripheral world. He got her pregnant, put her up, and then had the audacity to show up at my professional events, standing beside me in tailored suits, taking my hand for the cameras like he was still mine.

Like the world would buy the grand illusion he painted, while behind closed doors, he crawled into her bed at night and left me to freeze in ours.

I wondered, bitterly, how many people at tonight’s gala already knew, whispering behind champagne flutes about the wife who couldn’t keep her husband satisfied.

And what did I do? I played the dutiful, dignified corporate wife. I pretended I was fine with the quiet, hollow arrangement our marriage had become. I pretended his choices didn’t slice me open every single night I slept alone in that massive, empty mansion.

I pretended I didn’t see the pitying glances from the board members, the cruel, whispering gossip of society women, the way the world looked at me like I was broken... less of a woman, because I couldn’t give a powerful man a child.

God, I noticed every single look. Every quiet insult cut through me like a razor, and I had catalogued each one, filing them away in some secret vault of my own, right beside every other wound I refused to let anyone see.

And then there was Jaxx.

Jaxx, with his dangerous, suffocating presence, his filthy jokes, his insufferable arrogance. He had barged into my life like a wrecking ball I never asked for, stripping away every defensive layer I thought I had left. He didn’t love me... he wanted to ruin me.

He wanted to use me to tear Graham down, to prove his dominance, to play whatever sick game he was running against Graham’s circle. I knew all of this. I had known it from the very first night he’d looked at me across a crowded room like I was something worth devouring.

And yet... God help me... every time his rough hands touched my skin, every time his dark, gravelly voice curled around my ear, my traitorous body responded to him. The heat, the absolute, terrifying thrill of being wanted with such raw, violent hunger... it terrified me because it made me feel alive in a world where I had been dead for years.

Perhaps that was the cruelest part of all: that the man who wanted to destroy me was also the only one who made me feel like a woman worth wanting.

My chest heaved violently, heavy tears finally spilling over my lashes, hot and fast, washing away the carefully maintained mask I had worn all night. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palms against my face, sobbing into the quiet luxury of the car.

The words tore out of my throat, raw, shattered, and bleeding into the dark space around me.

"I just want to feel love..." I sobbed, my voice breaking into a pathetic, desperate plea. "Even if it’s just for a moment... even if it’s just by one person who actually wants me..."