Chapter 265 - 0265: I’m Too Tired To Fight You

Chapter 265: Chapter 0265: I’m Too Tired To Fight You

Elena’s Point Of View

A week had passed. Seven full days inside Jaxx’s suite, and somehow I still hadn’t figured out how I’d gotten stuck here. Not physically stuck... because technically, I could leave. I had proven that much. After three days of arguing, glaring, ignoring him, then talking again like nothing happened, I’d managed to convince him to let me go to work.

The negotiations had been exhausting, a constant back-and-forth that left me drained by the end of each day, my nerves frayed and my patience worn thin. That alone felt like a victory. A small one.

But still, I clung to it like proof that I hadn’t completely lost myself in this strange arrangement, proof that some part of me remained mine alone, untouched by whatever this was between us.

"Don’t get used to it," he’d said that morning, watching me get dressed like he didn’t trust the door not to disappear if I walked through it. His eyes had tracked my every movement with an intensity that made my skin prickle, the weight of his attention almost a physical thing, heavy enough that I’d nearly fumbled the buttons on my shirt twice.

"I’m not your prisoner," I’d reminded him, buttoning my shirt with deliberate slowness, refusing to let him see how much his gaze unsettled me, how it sent a current of awareness humming beneath my skin that I desperately wanted to deny.

"You’re something worse."

I paused, turning to look at him. My fingers stilled on the last button. "And what exactly is that?"

He didn’t answer. Just smirked. That stupid, confident smirk that made me want to throw something at him, preferably something heavy, maybe one of the expensive vases he seemed to collect without ever actually looking at, as if they existed purely to prove he could afford not to care.

So yes, I could go to work. But going back to my own house? That had turned into a completely different conversation. A useless one.

"Jaxx, I have a house," I’d said, trying to keep my voice level, trying not to let the frustration bleed through, though I could feel it building in my chest like pressure before a storm.

"And?"

"And I live there."

"Not anymore."

I stared at him for a full five seconds, waiting for the punchline that never came, waiting for some sign that he was joking, that the ground beneath me hadn’t just shifted again, that my entire life hadn’t been quietly rearranged without my consent.

"You cannot just relocate me without my permission."

"I just did."

"You’re unbelievable."

"And you’re still here," he’d pointed out, his tone maddeningly casual, as though that single fact erased every protest I could possibly raise, as though my continued presence was its own kind of surrender.

Brick wall. That was the only way to describe him. Talking to Jaxx when he’d made up his mind felt like arguing with a locked door. You could knock. Kick. Shout. Nothing changed. So I stopped trying. For now. That was the key part. For now. Because some battles needed time to regroup, and I was learning, slowly and reluctantly, which ones were worth fighting today and which could wait for tomorrow.

That evening, I stretched out on the couch, one leg tucked under me, my phone loosely in my hand as I scrolled through social media without really paying attention to anything. The glow from the screen cast pale light across my face in the dimming room, the silence around me heavy with thoughts I didn’t want to examine too closely.

My mind drifted in and out. Work. Random posts. Memories I didn’t want to think about, memories that crept in during these quiet moments when I had nothing to distract me, when the walls of this suite seemed to close in just a little tighter, pressing against me until I felt the strange, suffocating comfort of a cage I was starting to forget was a cage at all. My thumb slowed. Then stopped. Then moved again. Mindless.

Until the door opened.

I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to. There was something about him - the way he walked, the weight of his presence, the quiet shift in the air when he entered a room, like the atmosphere itself rearranged to accommodate him. It was noticeable. Annoyingly so. I kept my eyes on my phone, determined not to give him the satisfaction of my attention, though every nerve in my body seemed to know exactly where he stood, tracking him the way a compass finds north without ever being asked to.

"You’re staring," his voice came from across the room.

I snorted softly, still not looking up. "I’m scrolling."

"Same thing."

I rolled my eyes but didn’t bother responding. Some arguments weren’t worth the energy, not when I knew exactly how they’d end, with him smug and me pretending I hadn’t let him win.

A few seconds later, the couch dipped slightly. Before I could react, his arm slid around my waist and pulled me toward him with an ease that suggested he’d done this a thousand times before, as though my body belonged naturally against his, as though the space beside him had been shaped for me alone.

"Hey..." I looked up at him now, meeting his gaze with a mixture of annoyance and something else I refused to name. "When did I agree to this?"

"You didn’t."

"Then why are you touching me?"

"Because I want to," he said simply, as if that explained everything, as if his wanting something made it automatically acceptable, inevitable even, a law of nature rather than a choice he was making.

I stared at him. Flat. Unimpressed. "You’re lucky I’m too tired to fight you."

"I know," he said, and there was something almost gentle in his tone that caught me off guard, a softness I hadn’t expected and wasn’t sure what to do with, like discovering an unlocked door in a house I’d thought was sealed shut.

That earned him a small glare. He just smirked. Of course he did.

I shifted slightly but didn’t move away completely. Not because I couldn’t. I just didn’t. Which was a whole different issue I wasn’t ready to unpack. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. The warmth of him beside me had become something I no longer actively resisted, and that quiet surrender frightened me more than anything he could have said.

"What do you want?" I asked, glancing back at my phone, though I’d lost track of what I’d been looking at, my thoughts far too occupied with the warmth radiating from his arm around me.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand moved slightly against my side, slow, absentminded, like he was tracing patterns he wasn’t even thinking about. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of my shirt, and I tried to ignore how my body instinctively relaxed into the touch, betraying me in ways my mind refused to accept, in ways that felt like a quiet mutiny against everything I kept telling myself I wanted.

Then he said, "I’ve got something for you."

That caught my attention. I lifted my gaze to meet his, one eyebrow arching in question.

"You’ve got a gift for me?"

He nodded once, a hint of satisfaction playing at the corners of his mouth, like he already knew how this would unfold, like he’d rehearsed this moment and savored every second of my confusion.

"Guess."

I rolled my eyes immediately, unable to help myself. "You’ve finally decided to let me go back to my place."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, the sound vibrating against my shoulder where I still leaned into him. "Anything except that, princess."

I groaned, letting my head fall back slightly in exasperation. "You’re so annoying."

"I’ve been called worse," he said, his tone light, almost amused.

"I can imagine." The words came out drier than I intended.

I shifted to face him properly now, narrowing my eyes with genuine curiosity mixed with suspicion. "What is it?"

"Guess."

"No."

"Try."

"No."

His lips twitched, fighting back a smile. "Lazy."

"I’m conserving energy," I countered, matching his tone.

"For what?"

"For when I finally escape you."

That made him laugh... actually laugh. Not the quiet, controlled sound I’d grown accustomed to, but something real and unguarded, a sound that seemed to surprise even him. The genuine warmth of it caught me off guard, making my chest tighten unexpectedly, and for a moment I forgot to be annoyed with him, forgot even to breathe properly as I watched something unguarded flicker across his face before he could catch it and put it away again.

"Good luck with that."

I huffed softly, turning my face away to hide the flush creeping up my neck. "Idiot."

"Your idiot."

The words came out softer than his usual teasing, carrying a weight I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. I blinked once, processing what he’d just said. Then I frowned, my defenses snapping back into place, a reflex as automatic as breathing.

"Don’t start."

"Too late."

I opened my mouth to fire back a retort, but he cut me off by reaching beside him and retrieving a file I hadn’t noticed before. My eyes dropped to it immediately, my pulse quickening for reasons I couldn’t quite name, some instinct warning me that whatever lay inside would change something, would shift the ground beneath me in a way I couldn’t yet predict.

"Here." He extended it toward me, his expression unreadable now, a careful mask that told me nothing and everything at once.

I stared at the manila folder for a long moment before taking it slowly, my fingers brushing against his. The simple touch sent an unwelcome spark up my arm, the same traitorous warmth that always seemed to follow in the wake of his touch.

"What is this?"

"Open it."

Something in his tone... a carefully controlled neutrality, made my fingers pause for a fraction of a second. There was an undercurrent there, something he was holding back, something he wanted me to discover on my own rather than hear from him directly, as though the moment mattered too much to be explained in words.

Then I flipped it open, my hands suddenly unsteady. The moment my eyes landed on the first page, my breath caught in my throat. This couldn’t be. I sat up straighter without realizing it, my heart picking up speed as I flipped through the pages quickly, desperately. Legal terms jumped out at me. The familiar structure of a contract I’d memorized through countless readings, each clause once a source of dread now transformed into something I could barely comprehend. My name. His name.

The words blurred slightly as my hands began to tremble, my mind racing ahead of what my eyes could confirm. My fingers moved faster, flipping through page after page, scanning, searching for the one thing that would make this real or prove it was just another cruel joke, another manipulation in a long line of them, another way for the universe to remind me that hope was a dangerous thing to hold onto.

Until I reached the last page.

And everything stopped.

My eyes locked onto the signature at the bottom... bold, unmistakable strokes of ink that I’d seen on countless documents before. Graham. It was his handwriting. Clear. Undeniable. Real.

A sharp gasp tore from my lips before I could stop it, the sound almost painful in the quiet room. I looked up at Jaxx immediately, my vision swimming slightly, tears threatening at the corners of my eyes though I couldn’t have said whether they came from relief or disbelief. Then back at the file, needing to confirm I hadn’t imagined it. Then back at him again, my mind refusing to accept what my eyes were telling me, caught in a loop of disbelief that refused to loosen its grip.

"No." The word came out barely above a whisper. I shook my head slightly, denial warring with hope in my chest, two forces so evenly matched I thought they might tear me apart. "This isn’t..."

I looked again, my fingers trembling as they traced the edge of the signature. Still there. Still real. Still impossible.

"How..." I turned to him fully now, the file still open in my hands, my knuckles white from gripping it so tightly. "What is this?"

His gaze didn’t waver, steady and certain in a way that made my heart stutter, as though he’d expected this reaction and had already made peace with whatever came next.

"Freedom."

The single word hit harder than I expected, landing like a physical blow to my chest. I swallowed hard, fighting against the sudden burning behind my eyes, refusing to let myself cry in front of him, not yet, not until I understood what this truly meant, not until I could trust that this wasn’t some elaborate setup designed to break me in a new way. My fingers tightened around the edges of the paper, crinkling it slightly.

"This is signed." I needed to say it out loud, to make it real, to hear the words leave my own mouth before I could let myself believe them.

"I know."

I looked at him again, a storm of emotions swirling through me. Confusion. Suspicion. A fragile, terrifying hope I was afraid to acknowledge. And underneath it all, something that felt dangerously close to gratitude, an emotion I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel toward him, not when every instinct I had told me that owing him anything came with consequences I couldn’t yet see.

"He refused." My voice came out quieter now, almost broken. "Graham said he wouldn’t sign. He told me to my face he’d never let me go."

Jaxx didn’t respond immediately. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and I caught a flash of something dark in his eyes - something that spoke of actions taken and prices paid, of a version of events he had no intention of sharing in detail, a silence that felt deliberate, protective even, though I couldn’t tell if it was me he meant to protect or himself.

That silence told me more than anything he could have said. I stared at him, really stared this time, trying to read the truth in the set of his shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression. Trying to understand what exactly he had done to make this happen. Because this wasn’t simple. This wasn’t luck. This wasn’t coincidence. This was planned. Executed. Finished. And somewhere beneath my relief, a thread of unease began to weave itself through my thoughts, quiet but persistent.

My heart was still racing, my thoughts scrambling to catch up with what was right in front of me. The implications. The cost. What he must have done to get Graham to sign away his claim on me. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been easy, and some part of me feared the answer even as I needed to hear it, needed to know exactly what price had been paid for my freedom and who, in the end, would be the one expected to repay it.

Then I finally spoke, each word measured and careful, my voice barely steady.

"How did you manage to get him to sign it?"