Chapter 294 - 0294: How Is That My Fault?

Chapter 294: Chapter 0294: How Is That My Fault?

Elena’s Point Of View

The world didn’t tilt, and I didn’t burst into tears. Instead, a strange, crystalline silence settled over my brain, as if someone had pressed pause on reality itself. The sting on my cheek became a localized fire, a blooming heat that pulsed with every thud of my heart, yet my eyes remained locked on Sebastian.

Somewhere beneath the shock, a small, distant part of me catalogued the moment with eerie detachment, as though I were watching this scene unfold on a screen rather than living it.

His face swam before me, twisted with righteous fury, convinced of his own moral superiority. In that moment, I recognized the same expression he’d worn when he’d dismissed my business proposals at family dinners, that same condescending certainty that he alone understood how the world worked.

I’d seen that look a hundred times before, across mahogany tables and crystal glasses of wine, and each time it had chipped away a little more of whatever patience I had left for this family.

I could hear the collective gasp of my employees, the sound of air being sucked out of a room, and the panicked scuffle of Clara trying to keep a weeping intern from having a total meltdown. Someone’s phone clattered to the floor, the sharp crack echoing through the stunned silence. A small, detached part of my mind registered that this would be the talk of the office for weeks, that Monday morning coffee breaks would be consumed with whispered retellings of the day the Sinclairs came to call.

I reached up, my fingers grazing the skin that was rapidly swelling. The flesh felt foreign under my touch, tender and hot, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. I didn’t flinch. Instead, I straightened my spine, my posture becoming as rigid and unforgiving as the steel beams holding up this skyscraper. Years of boardroom battles had taught me that showing weakness was an invitation for predators to strike.

My father had taught me that lesson when I was twelve, watching him negotiate with men who thought his youth made him vulnerable. I’d learned it well, had carried it with me through every meeting, every negotiation, every moment someone had looked at me and seen only a woman to be underestimated.

"I’m not a leech, Sebastian," I said, my voice eerily level. It was the voice I used when a million-dollar shipment went missing in the Atlantic, cold, precise, and devoid of any emotion that could be used against me. Each word was a calculated weapon, sharpened by years of defending myself in rooms full of men who thought my gender made me weak. I felt the old armor settling into place, the one I’d forged out of necessity long before Sebastian or his son had ever entered my life.

"In fact, the only mistake I ever made, the only stain on my resume and my sanity, was marrying your son and letting myself be dragged into the swamp you call a family."

Sebastian looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. His face turned a shade of purple that matched Matilda’s hideous amethyst brooch, the one she wore to every social function as if it were a crown jewel rather than a gaudy relic from a deceased aunt who’d had questionable taste. The veins in his neck stood out like ropes, pulsing with barely contained rage.

"How dare you?" he sputtered, his jowls quivering with indignation, spittle flying with each accusatory word, tiny droplets of fury that made me want to step back, though I refused to give him that satisfaction. "After everything you did to my family? After ruining us? You’ve spent the last few weeks systematically running the Sinclair name down into the dirt, and you have the audacity to stand in this... this little storefront and act like a victim?"

I blinked, a genuine flicker of confusion cutting through my fury. The accusation made no sense, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong space. "What are you even talking about?" I asked, my tone sharp with bewilderment. "Running your family down? I’ve been too busy building my own empire to spare a single thought for yours, Sebastian. If the Sinclair name is in the dirt, it’s because you people are the ones holding the shovels. Don’t blame me for your own reckless actions and the inevitable rot of your legacy."

"You ingrate!" Sebastian fumed, stepping into my personal space again. His cologne, expensive and overpowering, something with notes of sandalwood and entitlement, assaulted my senses. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the whiskey on his breath from whatever liquid lunch he’d enjoyed before storming into my office. I wondered, with a flash of dark humor even in that tense moment, how many old-fashioneds it had taken to fortify him for this little ambush.

I didn’t budge, refusing to give him the satisfaction of retreat. My heels were planted firmly on my marble floor, in my building, in my company. "After everything the Sinclairs did for you! We gave you a platform! We gave you status!"

I sneered, a sharp, ugly sound that surprised even me. It bubbled up from somewhere deep and wounded, a place I’d kept carefully locked away for years, sealed behind politeness and practiced smiles at family functions I’d never wanted to attend. "The Sinclairs did nothing for me. If anything, you all only caused me pain during my years of marriage."

The memories flooded back: endless dinners where I was ignored while the men discussed business, charity galas where I was paraded like a trophy wife despite having more business acumen than half the board, family meetings where my opinions were dismissed before I could finish speaking, as if my words were merely decorative sounds. I remembered the hot shame of those moments, how I’d swallowed it each time, how I’d told myself it didn’t matter because I knew my own worth even if they refused to see it.

"You treated me like a decorative piece of furniture that didn’t quite match the drapes. I built this company while your son was out ’finding himself’ in the beds of every socialite in the city."

The words hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving. I watched Sebastian’s face contort, saw the truth of my statement register even as he tried to deny it. He’d known about Graham’s affairs, of course. They all had. It was an open secret whispered about at country clubs and cocktail parties, the kind of thing wealthy families swept under Persian rugs, the kind of betrayal that everyone acknowledged in private and denied in public.

Matilda, who had been standing back like a vulture waiting for the carcass to stop twitching, finally stepped forward. Her heels clicked aggressively against the marble, each step a declaration of war, a rhythm I’d heard countless times in the Sinclair mansion’s long hallways, usually right before she said something designed to leave a mark that wouldn’t show on the skin.

She had always been the more dangerous of the two. Sebastian was all bluster and rage, a summer thunderstorm that passed quickly, but Matilda wielded cruelty like a surgeon’s scalpel, precise and calculated to cause maximum damage. Her face remained composed, almost serene, which only made her more terrifying. I had learned long ago that it was Matilda’s silences, not Sebastian’s shouting, that truly deserved fear.

"You ruined our company because of a divorce, Elena," she said, her voice dripping with venom, each syllable carefully enunciated as though speaking to a particularly slow child, "Don’t play the fool now. It doesn’t suit you."

My brow furrowed. The confusion was deepening, turning into a heavy knot in my stomach that twisted tighter with each passing second. Something was very wrong here, like watching a play where everyone knew their lines except me. "Ruined your company?" I repeated slowly, trying to make sense of her words, searching her face for some clue to this bizarre accusation. "Matilda, I wanted a divorce, not a corporate takeover. What on earth are you talking about?"

Matilda tilted her head, her eyes flashing with a cruel, jagged light that I’d seen before, usually right before she delivered a particularly devastating blow at family gatherings, the kind of comment designed to humiliate while maintaining plausible deniability.

A cold smile played at her lips, the corners lifting in a way that never reached her eyes. She was enjoying this, savoring my confusion like a fine wine, drawing the moment out the way she might linger over a particularly good vintage.

"So you’re not just barren," she said, letting each word drop like stones into still water, watching the ripples of pain spread across my face, "you have dementia as well? How tragic."

The word barren struck me like a physical blow to the chest. It was the old wound, the one they loved to salt whenever they sensed their power slipping through their fingers. I recoiled, breath hitching in my throat for just a split second, my composure flickering like a candle in the wind. For one unguarded moment, I was twenty-six again, sitting in a doctor’s office, hearing news that would follow me like a shadow for the rest of my marriage.

She stepped closer, her perfume, something floral and cloying, wrapping around me like a noose. The scent made my stomach turn. "Because of you, we lost our major investors," she hissed. "Our most important deal of the decade fell through last week. The partners walked away. All because of you and your selfish need to ’be free.’"

The accusation hung in the air between us, heavy and poisonous. I felt the familiar burn of injustice rising in my chest. "And how is that my fault?" I snapped, recovering my voice even as my heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a drum of war. "I wanted a divorce, and Graham was being a stubborn, ego-driven child about it. If investors are leaving, it’s because they finally saw the cracks in your foundation."

I took a breath, steadying myself, drawing on every ounce of composure I’d cultivated across years of hostile takeovers and impossible negotiations. "Check within yourselves, Matilda. You must have offended someone powerful, or maybe the world is just tired of the Sinclair bullshit. Don’t pin your bankruptcy on my desire for a clean break."

Matilda’s eyes flared, her face contorting into a mask of pure, unbridled malice. The transformation was almost frightening, from polished society matron to something feral and unhinged, the mask of civility finally slipping to reveal what lay beneath. "You barren witch!"

She didn’t just move; she lunged. Her hand swept through the air, a frantic, desperate arc aimed right for the other side of my face. I could see the rage in her eyes, the years of resentment finally boiling over, and for a strange, suspended instant I almost welcomed the blow, as though it might finally balance some invisible ledger between us. I braced myself, muscles tensing for the impact, but it never came.

Suddenly, a hand clamped onto my shoulder and jerked me backward with a force that sent me stumbling out of the line of fire. Matilda, who had put every ounce of her bitterness into that swing, found nothing but empty air. The momentum carried her forward, her heels skidding on the polished floor until she landed squarely on the ground with a dull, pathetic thud and a shriek of indignation.

The sound echoed through the lobby, drawing stares from everyone within earshot. I would have laughed if my heart weren’t racing so fast.

I gasped, my back hitting a chest that felt like a wall of solid muscle. The warmth of another body steadied me, grounded me in the chaos. I didn’t need to turn around to know the scent: sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and a hint of something dangerous, something that made my pulse quicken for entirely different reasons than the fear and fury of moments before.

I looked up, and there he was. Jaxx. He didn’t look like he’d just dropped me off moments ago. He looked like he’d just walked out of a storm, his eyes dark and fixed on Sebastian with a look that made the temperature in the lobby drop twenty degrees.

There was something predatory in his stance, protective and threatening all at once, as though every muscle in his body had coiled itself around the single purpose of standing between me and harm. His grip on my arm was firm, grounding, and utterly immovable.

My heart, which had been racing from the attempted slap, now did a strange, complicated somersault, torn between the adrenaline of the confrontation and something warmer, something I hadn’t expected to feel in the middle of chaos. Relief flooded through me, mixed with confusion and something I didn’t want to name.

I looked at the chaos: Matilda sprawled on the floor, her dignity as shattered as her composure, Sebastian trembling with rage, and Jaxx standing over me like a dark shadow, solid and unshakable amid the wreckage of the moment. "Jaxx," I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"