Chapter 46 - 0046: I Want You To Stop Seeing Him

Chapter 46: Chapter 0046: I Want You To Stop Seeing Him

Elena’s Point Of View

A sharp, splitting pain thundered in my skull like heavy drums beating straight from hell.

"Mmmgh," I groaned sharply, the sound torn from my dry, scraped throat, feeling like coarse sandpaper dragging across raw wood. The cruel morning light sliced straight through the gaps in the sheer curtains, blinding me with a ruthless brightness that forced my eyes tightly shut again. Every nerve ending in my body throbbed in rhythm with my pulse.

My limbs felt impossibly heavy, my temples pounded behind my eyes, and my mouth tasted of stale scotch, bitter regret, and something far more dangerous.

"Graham," I mumbled out of pure, ten-year-old habit, my voice barely a cracked whisper into the dark. "Close the windows, please..." I groaned again, louder this time, waiting for the familiar shift of the mattress beside me, waiting for him to sigh and move the way he always did, grumbling about the hour before eventually giving in.

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating, absolute silence.

I turned onto my side, dragging the covers over my head to construct a makeshift cocoon against the daylight. "Baby?" I whispered again, my throat tightening as the stillness began to feel less like quiet and more like a threat, something coiled and waiting just beyond my reach.

Still nothing.

"Graham?" My voice rose, a sharp edge of confusion finally breaking through the heavy fog in my brain. No answer. No sound of footsteps crossing the floor. No familiar rustle of the newspaper or the hum of the shower from the master bathroom. Nothing but an eerie, stagnant stillness hanging in the air, pressing down on my chest like a physical weight.

Frowning, I peeled the edge of the heavy duvet back, forcing my burning eyes open. I squinted through the glaring morning sunlight, blinking rapidly as the room slowly bled into focus around me - its pale cream walls, the high ceilings, the pristine dark mahogany furniture, and the unfamiliar, heavy scent of cedarwood, rain, and dark tobacco clinging to every thread of fabric.

What the...?

My heart slammed against my ribs - one sharp, violent thud that echoed in my ears.

This... this wasn’t our bedroom.

I sat up sharply, clutching the heavy silk sheet to my chest as my eyes darted frantically around the space like a trapped animal scouting an exit. White sheer curtains danced lazily in the morning breeze. The air smelled of ungodly wealth, high-proof liquor, and raw, lingering heat. And the sheets coiled around my bare legs were dark violet silk, nothing like the crisp white linens I had chosen for our home years ago.

My entire body went rigid as the memories of the night before hit me like a runaway freight train, smashing through the alcohol fog with terrifying, crystal-clear detail.

The betrayal. The humiliation in the driveway. Graham’s mother looking at me like trash while his "cousin" wore my robe. The Vespers Club. The heavy amber liquid burning down my throat, each swallow a small act of self-destruction I hadn’t cared to stop.

Jaxx.

His dark, unreadable eyes looking down at me in the dim glow of his private suite. The rough, calloused weight of his hand framing my jaw, leaving a trail of pure fire across my cheekbone. The terrifying, possessive roar of his voice as he trapped me against the wall.

"Use me, Bambina."

"Be the fire."

And then... coming back home. The violent, explosive showdown on the marble stairs. Graham’s hand digging into my arm hard enough to bruise. The possessive rage in his eyes when he realized another man had touched me, as though I were property he’d caught someone else handling. The slap. The brutal, suffocating kiss meant to mark his territory... and the sudden, terrifying memory of Jaxx that made me shove my own husband back down the steps until his glass shattered against the floor.

"Oh my God," I breathed, pressing my palms against my burning face, my knuckles trembling violently. "Tell me I didn’t..."

A low groan escaped my lips as I swung my legs over the edge of the high bed, wrapping the heavy silk sheet around my body like armor. My knees wobbled dangerously the second my feet touched the floorboards, my body aching with a strange, dark exhaustion that felt like it lived in my bones rather than my muscles.

What had I done? What war had I just started?

I shuffled into the adjoining guest bathroom like a ghost haunting its own life, dragging my bruised pride with each heavy step. The cool marble floor sent a shiver straight up my bare feet. When I reached out and flicked on the vanity light, I froze dead in my tracks, staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror.

I looked like a woman who had barely survived a storm.

My hair was a wild, tangled mess of dark waves resting over my shoulders. Smudged mascara cast dark shadows beneath my eyes, making me look hollowed out, haunted. My bottom lip was swollen, red, and faintly stung where both Graham and Jaxx had bitten down with possessive fury, two claims etched into the same fragile skin.

And then my eyes caught the corner of the mirror.

Sitting on the edge of the marble vanity, framed perfectly under the bright lights, was a sleek, heavy metallic card.

It sat there like an invitation to my own execution, practically glowing against the white stone. I took a hesitant step closer, my breath catching in my chest as I read the bold, silver-embossed lettering in the center:

JAXX MORETTI

His private phone number was printed neatly beneath it like a signed death warrant.

I let out a harsh, bitter scoff, my jaw clenching tightly. "Oh, hell no," I muttered under my breath, snatching the card between two fingers as if it were coated in poison. "There’s no way in hell I’m calling you, Jaxx."

I tossed the metallic card onto the counter beside the sink, watching it clatter sharply before coming to rest against the porcelain bowl. That was the scotch talking last night. That was the raw, bleeding desperation of a woman who had been pushed past her limit. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Elena Sinclair.

I leaned both hands heavily against the edge of the cold marble countertop, gripping it until my knuckles turned stark white as the phantom feeling of last night dragged itself across my skin.

I could still feel it. The predatory way his eyes had undressed me before his fingers had even dared to lay a scratch on my skin. That slow, wicked smirk that spelled complete destruction. The intoxicating, dangerous heat of his body pressing me flat against the door, and the sheer, terrifying power behind the way he had claimed my mouth until I couldn’t breathe.

The worst part? I hadn’t hated it. I had wanted it. God help me, a dark, twisted part of my soul had craved every single second of his ruinous attention, and some traitorous corner of my heart craved it still.

"No," I whispered out loud to the empty bathroom, my chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic hitches. "No, it wasn’t me."

But the taste of him - cedar, dark tobacco, and pure danger... still lingered on the back of my tongue. I closed my eyes tight, my heart hammering against my ribs in a rhythm that refused to acknowledge my lies.

I had crossed a line last night. I had drawn a line in the sand with Graham, and I had handed the match to a devil who was more than willing to set the whole city on fire just to watch it burn.

And I wasn’t sure I possessed the strength to walk back anymore.

I padded across the bedroom floor again, letting the silk sheet pool around my ankles as I opened the guest wardrobe. Tucked inside were a few clothes I had managed to pack before being shoved out of the main wing - simple, elegant pieces that felt like relics from a life I no longer recognized as mine.

I reached for a soft, light lavender cotton dress, slipping it over my head. The fabric brushed gently against my skin, ironic in its color considering lavender used to be Graham’s absolute favorite on me, back when he still noticed what I wore at all.

I didn’t care. I finger-combed my damp hair, letting it fall loosely over my shoulders, not bothering with makeup or jewelry. I wasn’t dressing up for anyone today. Not for Graham. Not for his family. And certainly not for Jaxx Moretti.

As I opened the bedroom door and stepped into the long corridor, the faint, rich aroma of breakfast wafted up from the lower floor... freshly brewed espresso, sizzling bacon, and sweet batter. My stomach let out a low rumble, reminding me with sharp clarity that I hadn’t eaten a real meal in over twenty-four hours.

I walked down the grand marble staircase barefoot, the cool stone beneath my soles doing nothing to soothe the strange mix of raw nerves and cold, lethal defiance winding tighter in my chest with every step.

The sight that greeted me as I entered the sunlit dining room was so absurd, so utterly surreal, that I nearly let out a dark, dry laugh right there on the threshold.

Graham sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, reading something on his tablet with an icy, stern expression. Sitting directly to his right, in the exact chair I had occupied for five years, was Lilian... his so-called "cousin" turned mistress turned unwanted houseguest. She was delicate, wrapped in an oversized cream cardigan, sipping orange juice from crystal stemware as if she were the rightful mistress of the estate, as if five years of my life at that table had simply evaporated overnight.

I paused at the entrance, smoothed down the front of my lavender dress, and forced a bright, brilliantly fake smile onto my face.

"Good morning, everyone!" I chimed, my voice carrying a light, sing-song cadence that cut through the silence of the room like a silver blade.

Both of their heads snapped up instantly. Graham’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief, while Lilian froze mid-sip, looking at me as if she were seeing a ghost walk into the light of day. They had clearly expected me to spend the morning locked in the guest room, weeping into a pillow, dying of a broken heart.

"It really smells lovely in here," I added smoothly, stepping into the room with complete, unbothered grace. "I’m absolutely starving."

I walked over to the sideboard, picking up a porcelain plate and serving myself a generous portion of eggs and fruit, pouring a cup of dark coffee as if I hadn’t been physically shoved out of my own marriage twelve hours prior. If they thought I was going to hide in the dark and play the pitiful, disgraced wife, they were sorely mistaken.

Graham cleared his throat sharply, slamming his tablet face-down onto the table with a loud thud.

"Now that you’ve finally sobered up, Elena," he began, his voice dropping into that stiff, commanding tone he used in boardrooms when he expected total compliance, "I think it’s high time you came to your senses and remembered who you are."

I paused mid-step, holding my coffee cup in one hand and my plate in the other. I blinked at him, tilting my head slightly with mock curiosity.

"Come again, Graham?"

"I want you to stop seeing him," he said, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared at me across the table, his posture rigid. "I want this foolish, disgraceful little rebellion over with today. You’re going to ruin this family’s reputation before the week is out."

A quiet, breathless laugh bubbled up in my throat. I set my plate and coffee down on the table with a sharp, deliberate clink, resting both hands flat against the polished wood as I looked at him.

"Me?" I repeated slowly, letting the word hang in the air between us. "I’m going to ruin the family reputation? Oh, Graham... that is rich. Truly magnificent, coming from you."

Graham’s jaw flexed violently. "Elena, I am warning you..."

"Did you pause to consider the family’s sacred reputation when you dragged your dirty little secret into our home?" I asked, leaning forward slightly, my voice dropping into an icy, dangerous register. "Did you think about the Sinclair name when you let her sleep in my bed, wear my clothes, and drink my wine?"

Lilian’s hand trembled, her crystal glass stopping inches from her face. Her cheeks flushed a bright, artificial pink, her manicured nails digging tightly into the glass.

"Who are you calling a secret?" she snapped, her voice high, shrill, and laced with a pathetic attempt at superiority. "I am a guest in this house!"

I turned my head slowly, locking my eyes onto her with a glare so cold it could have frozen boiling water.

"You," I said flatly, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. "You plastic-faced, synthetic, perfume-choked parasite."

Lilian’s mouth fell open in absolute shock, her eyes darting frantically to Graham. "Graham! Are you hearing this?!"

"And unless you want to spend the rest of your morning in the emergency room having my silver fork extracted from your lip gloss," I continued smoothly, picking up my napkin and unfolding it over my lap, "I would strongly advise you to shut your mouth before I drag you out of my chair by your cheap hair extensions and throw you into the driveway."

Lilian blinked rapidly, her breath catching in her throat, her face draining of all color as she shrank back into the seat.

"Graham, are you really going to let her speak to me like..."

"I am speaking to my husband, Lilian," I cut her off with a whip-like snap, not even bothering to look at her. "This conversation was never yours to participate in. Know your place in this house."

She went entirely silent, her jaw tight, her lips trembling with a mixture of raw humiliation and rage.

Graham slammed his palm flat against the dining table, making the fine china rattle violently. "Elena! That is enough!"

"No," I said, rising slowly to my feet. The wooden chair scraped sharply against the floorboards as I pushed it back, standing tall in my simple cotton dress, looking down at him with every ounce of hatred I had accumulated over five years. "You don’t get to kick me out of our master suite, parade your whore around my dining room, and then have the audacity to stand there and tell me what is ’enough.’"

Graham’s face flushed a deep, furious red, his knuckles turning white where he gripped the table edge. "Do not use that word in this house!"

"You don’t get to play the dignified victim here, Graham!" I raised my voice, the raw, unfiltered authority in my tone echoing through the high ceilings. "You don’t get to act like you’re protecting the family name! You dragged the Sinclair name through the mud the exact second you unzipped your pants for a walking trash fire in high heels!"

Lilian let out a horrified gasp, covering her mouth with both hands.

"Do not speak to her like that!" Graham barked, standing up so fast his chair nearly tipped over behind him.

"You want to talk about ruined reputations, Graham?" I asked, stepping around the table until I was standing right beside him, my chin held high, my eyes blazing with a dangerous, untouchable fire. "Then maybe you should have acted like a husband instead of a spineless, pathetic disappointment."