Chapter 189 - 0189: What If She Doesn’t Come Back?

Chapter 189: Chapter 0189: What If She Doesn’t Come Back?

Jaxx’s Point Of View

The heavy oak door clicked shut with a sound so quiet, so agonizingly final, that it echoed through the high-ceilinged suite like a gunshot.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. For a long moment, time itself seemed to hesitate, as if the world were waiting to see what I would do with the wreckage she’d left behind.

I just stood there, towering and unmoving in the middle of the room, my knuckles still white where my fingers curled tightly around the edge of the polished mahogany desk drawer. The metallic weight of her car key had left my hand, and in its place settled a cold, hollow emptiness that sank deep into my chest, spreading like ice through my veins.

My dark eyes remained fixed on the precise spot near the doorway she had occupied just seconds ago, as though staring hard enough might conjure her back.

The air in the living room was still thick with her presence, saturated with the sweet, intoxicating scent of vanilla, warm amber, and something sharp and metallic beneath it... like the sting of a hidden blade. It was the kind of scent that seeped straight into the wallpaper, that clung to my skin, that burned in the back of my throat with every breath I dragged into my lungs.

I hated how much I already missed it. I hated how quickly this apartment, this fortress I’d built to keep the world out, had become unbearable without her in it.

My jaw clenched so hard the muscle violently ticked beneath my skin.

She was gone.

And I had stood right here like a stone statue and let her walk out.

Every aggressive instinct hardwired into my DNA screamed at me to move. I should have surged across the room, grabbed her soft wrist before her hand ever touched that brass door handle, pulled her flush against my chest, and pinned her against the wall until she couldn’t breathe.

I should have kissed her until her knees gave out, reminding her with my hands and my mouth exactly who she belonged to and why her place was right here in this penthouse, with me. The thought alone made my pulse hammer, a desperate, primal ache clawing up from somewhere beneath my ribs.

But I hadn’t moved an inch.

Because Elena Vance wasn’t a captive. She wasn’t a prize to be locked away in a gilded room, and no matter what dark, violent reputation preceded my name in the streets, I refused to become another monster in her life. That single truth had cost me more restraint than any battle I’d ever fought.

I exhaled a long, measured breath through my nose, my hands flexing in my pockets as I fought back the overwhelming urge to tear the room apart. I wanted to fix this. I wanted to sprint down the private elevator, intercept her in the underground garage, and drag her back upstairs where she belonged, consequences be damned.

No. Not this time.

This time, I had to play the long game. I had to grant her the illusion of freedom she was so desperately starving for, even if it felt like slowly bleeding out from a wound I couldn’t stitch closed. I would wait, giving her the space she begged for, because deep down, beneath all her fear and self-preservation, she would come back.

She had to.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovering over a contact number I hadn’t dialed in years, my chest tightening with something close to dread.

Graham Sinclair.

My older brother. The pathetic excuse for a human being who had dared to lay his hands on her. The weak, insecure bastard who had locked her in a dark study like a piece of personal property and left dark bruises on her skin.

My fingers clenched around the phone, the glass casing creaking under the sheer force of my grip as raw, unadulterated rage flooded my veins, hot and consuming.

Oh, he was going to regret ever breathing the same air as her. He was going to pay for every single tear she had shed in that house, every sleepless night, every flinch I’d witnessed when a door slammed too loud.

I forced myself to take a deep, steadying breath, reining in the dark monster raging inside my head. Elena had explicitly asked me for peace. She had asked me to respect her choice, and I would honor her wishes for as long as I could tolerate it.

But respecting her independence didn’t mean I was going to let Graham Sinclair walk away unscathed after what he’d done to her. Some sins didn’t deserve mercy, and his was chief among them.

I was going to dismantle him piece by piece. Slowly. Painfully. Permanently.

I turned away from the empty doorway and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out to the private balcony. The glass slid open with a quiet, metallic hiss, letting in the cool morning wind. The city sprawled out beneath the high-rise... a massive, indifferent grid of concrete, steel, and glass, completely oblivious to the war tearing through my chest.

I pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack in my pocket, the silver lighter flicking to life with a sharp snap. The orange flame illuminated my hands as I brought it to the tip, pulling the bitter smoke deep into my lungs. The heat burned down my throat, curling into my chest like a familiar, comforting poison, the only vice steady enough to keep me from unraveling completely.

She had left.

The thought twisted like a slow, agonizing blade in my side. But it wasn’t the physical absence of her that was currently gutting me; it was the brutal reality of why she had walked out that door.

She didn’t trust me.

She looked at me, at my empire, at my reputation, and saw another gilded cage. She believed that everything between us... the wild, magnetic pull, the fierce protection, the way I held her against my heart while she slept, was just a game. A power play against my brother. The thought alone made something inside me crack.

I closed my eyes, leaning my heavy forearms against the cold metal railing of the balcony as the smoke drifted into the crisp morning air.

I deserve it, I admitted bitterly to the empty sky.

I deserved every ounce of her suspicion. For years, I had operated in the dark, treating the world like a chessboard and the people in it like temporary distractions. I was the exact kind of dangerous, unpredictable man who naturally made a fragile woman wonder if she could trust anyone, even her own instincts.

I couldn’t blame her for running. If I were in her shoes, carrying the emotional scars of six years of betrayal, I wouldn’t trust a man like Jaxx Moretti either. That admission tasted like ash on my tongue, but it was the truth, and I’d never been a man who lied to himself for long.

I took another long drag, the ember glowing bright red in the dim morning light.

Fine.

If she needed to run across town to prove to herself that she still had a voice, I would let her run. For now.

I knew her play before she even made it. She was going to do everything in her power to build a wall between us. She would block my number, take different driving routes, hide away in that secret apartment of hers, and pretend that what happened between us in this penthouse was just a fever dream. She might even try to pack her bags and leave the city entirely.

Let her try. I was five steps ahead of her.

Because this time, I wasn’t going to hunt her down like a predator. I was going to wait in the shadows, letting her realize on her own that the world outside was cold, and that the only place she was truly safe, truly seen, was right here in my arms.

What if she doesn’t come back?

The treacherous thought slithered into my mind, cold and unwanted, coiling tight around my ribs. What if she decided the peace of being alone was better than the dangerous fire I offered? What if she looked at my life and decided I simply wasn’t worth the risk?

I crushed the thought instantly, my jaw tightening as I ground the butt of the cigarette against the railing.

No.

Elena was mine. Her body knew it, her soul knew it, and I didn’t lose what belonged to me. Ever.

I pulled out my phone again, my thumb tapping the screen to dial a secure line. It picked up on the second ring.

"Boss," Roman’s sharp, clinical voice echoed through the speaker.

"I need you to deploy a detail," I commanded, my voice dropping into a harsh, unyielding growl. "Keep an eye on someone for me. Round-the-clock coverage. Discreet."

There was a brief pause on the line. "Ms. Elena?"

A grim, humorless smirk touched the corner of my lips as I stared out over the skyline. "Who else? I want two discreet units on her building. If she leaves her apartment, if a stranger so much as looks at her sideways, or if Graham’s bottom-feeders get anywhere within three blocks of her street, I want to know before her heels hit the pavement."

"Understood, boss. Consider it done."

"And Roman?"

"Yes, Jaxx?"

"She isn’t to know they’re there. If she spots your men, I’ll personally throw you off this balcony."

"Understood, sir."

I ended the call, shoving the phone back into my pocket as I leaned against the railing, the city lights blurring at the edges of my vision as exhaustion finally began to gnaw at me.

She thought she could just walk away and close the curtain on us. She had no idea what kind of storm she had just initiated.

I stepped back inside the suite, sliding the heavy glass doors shut behind me. The apartment felt vast, empty, and deafeningly quiet. My gaze drifted over to the bed... the dark sheets still rumpled from where she had slept beside me, her faint floral scent clinging to the linen like a permanent ghost. I lingered there a moment longer than I meant to, memorizing the shape her body had left behind.

I was willing to grant her time, but my patience wasn’t infinite. I was a man built on sin and ambition, and waiting around was against my nature.

Suddenly, my phone began to vibrate violently in my palm. The loud, persistent ringtone sliced through the heavy silence of the room, demanding immediate attention.

I didn’t bother checking the caller ID. I assumed it was Roman calling back with the exact location of her secret building.

I brought the phone to my ear, my voice rough, impatient, and laced with dark irritation. "Took you long enough, Roman. Did you trace her route?"

"It isn’t Roman, boy."

I went dead still in the middle of the room. My fingers tightened around the casing until the metal groaned under the pressure.

I knew that voice.

It carried the weight of fifty years of blood, power, and merciless authority, a voice that didn’t need to yell to command total, terrifying obedience. It was deep, coarse, and laced with an ancient, unforgiving weight, the kind that had haunted my childhood and shaped every ambition I’d ever chased.

Dren Moretti.

My grandfather. The undisputed patriarch of the family.