Chapter 97 - 0097: I Don’t Let Go Of What’s Mine

Chapter 97: Chapter 0097: I Don’t Let Go Of What’s Mine

Jaxx’s Point Of View

Her words dropped like a blade across my chest.

"You can keep the panties," she said, her voice cold enough to frost glass. "Keep them as a souvenir, because that is the closest you will ever get to having me again."

She didn’t look at me. Didn’t even give me the mercy of a backward glance. Just that rigid spine, trembling beneath pride that barely held her together, and a chin lifted just a fraction too high, as if daring gravity itself to bring her down.

And then she was gone, heels striking the tiled floor, the sound echoing down the hallway like war drums, each strike a small detonation in the cavity of my chest.

I stood frozen, the silence she left behind pressing in on me, heavy, suffocating, thick with everything neither of us had said. My knuckles itched with the need to slam the wall, to drag her back, to pin her against the door and force her to admit what was burning in those eyes before she looked away.

My pulse hammered against my throat, a war drum of its own, matching the retreat of her heels beat for beat. Somewhere beneath the anger, a quieter voice reminded me that I had done this to her, that every wound I’d just carved open was mine to answer for.

The room smelled faintly of her perfume still, some vestige of jasmine and warmth that refused to leave with her, and I hated how much comfort I took from something so small.

But I didn’t move.

Because I saw it.

The way her legs faltered, just barely, as if the ground threatened to give out beneath her. How her hands curled into fists at her sides, how she forced herself to keep walking upright, like pride was the only rope keeping her from collapsing. I knew that walk. I had memorized it years ago, back when I still had the right to reach for her whenever she stumbled, back when a single look from me was enough to steady her before she fell.

I remembered a night long before Graham, before contracts and cameras and other men’s names attached to hers, when she’d stumbled on a curb outside some forgettable bar and laughed into my shoulder instead of falling. I would have given anything to be that steady hand again.

God, Elena. You hate me. You want to tear me apart.

And still, that hate was laced with fire, the kind that only exists where something else used to burn steadily, patiently, for far too long. I had felt that fire before, had built my life around chasing its warmth, and some reckless part of me refused to believe it could ever fully die.

I knew she had every right to be hurt. She had every damn right to be furious, annoyed, and wanting to rip my throat out with her bare hands. I felt like an absolute asshole... a ruthless, callous bastard for pushing her to the brink, for tearing her open right here in this dim, suffocating dressing room while the rest of the world danced outside, oblivious, glittering, cruel in its indifference.

I hated seeing the tear tracks drying on her skin, hated being the one who dragged those agonizing screams from her chest. I hated it, and yet some dark, possessive corner of me had needed to hear them, needed proof that she still felt something violent enough to match what lived in me.

Maybe that made me a monster. I no longer cared to argue otherwise. Somewhere along the way, caring what I was had become a luxury I couldn’t afford, not when losing her again felt like the only true catastrophe left in my life.

But God, she needed to hear the truth.

I could see it written plain in her eyes, plain in the way her body recoiled from every mention of him: she was no longer in that marriage. It was dead. A hollow husk decaying from the inside out.

But there she was, day after day, convincing herself otherwise. Telling herself stupid, desperate lies. Convincing herself that if she just endured a little more humiliation, a little more neglect, a little more of his silent disrespect and his mother’s poisonous insults, somehow it would all mean something.

She was suffocating under mountains of corporate expectations, drowning in a life that was slowly killing her spirit, and still forcing herself to smile for the cameras, still performing the role of the perfect wife long after the marriage itself had rotted away beneath the performance.

I had watched her do it for weeks, and every smile she faked for strangers had cost me something too, some sliver of patience I hadn’t known I possessed until it ran out completely tonight.

I had watched her laugh at Graham’s jokes with her eyes flat and distant, watched her thank his mother for cruelty dressed as advice, and each time I had wanted to cross whatever room we were in and simply take her away from all of it.

I had to rip that bandage off. I had to strip away her excuses until she had nowhere left to hide from reality. Even if it made her hate me forever, even if it cost me the very thing I was trying to protect.

I leaned against the edge of the dresser, dragging a hand down my face, my palm harsh against my skin, as though the sting might knock some sense back into me.

"You want to remain with your husband?" My voice was a growl meant only for the four walls. "Let’s see. Because you’re mine, Elena. And I don’t let go of what’s mine."

The words left my lips harsh, dangerous, but my chest twisted with restraint, a tight, aching knot that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with fear. Fear that I had finally pushed too far. Fear that this time, unlike all the times before, she wouldn’t come back.

Because I wanted to storm after her. Wanted to grab her and make her understand... no one else was allowed to have her, not now, not ever again. I wanted to crush that icy wall she tried to hide behind, to make her melt the way I knew she could, the way she once did when it was just the two of us against the world, back before pride and pain and other men had built themselves into the space between us.

I wanted, selfishly, desperately, to undo years in a single night, as if enough want alone could rewrite what I had broken and destroyed.

But if I came on too strong... I could lose her completely.

And I couldn’t risk that.

So I stood there, every muscle in me pulled tight like a bowstring, refusing to snap, refusing to let instinct override the fragile strategy I clung to. Patience had never come easily to me, not when it came to her, but I forced it into my bones anyway, because the alternative was unthinkable.

Silence crawled into the room, thick, only broken by the faint echo of her heels vanishing down the corridor. I pictured her ducking into some quiet corner, the mask falling, tears breaking through that pride until she crumbled, whispering to herself words she would never dare let me hear.

I imagined her pressing a hand to her mouth to keep the sound in, the way she used to when we were younger and she didn’t want anyone, not even me, to see her break. I imagined it so vividly I could almost feel the tremor of her shoulders beneath my palms, though my hands remained empty, curled uselessly at my sides.

And the thought nearly destroyed me.

With a slow exhale, I ran my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots, needing the pain to ground me. My reflection stared back from the full-length mirror, jaw tight, eyes black with fury and something deeper, something closer to grief than I wanted to admit.

I barely recognized the man looking back at me, hollowed out by years of pretending I didn’t want the one thing I’d never stopped wanting. There was a time I would have scoffed at a man who let a woman undo him so completely, and now here I stood, undone, and strangely unwilling to be anything else.

A laugh broke past my chest, low and raw. "Bambina."

That sight, the hatred burning in her eyes just before she left, was carved into me, etched deeper than any scar. It should have repelled me. Should have made me step back, made me question every choice that had led us here.

Instead, it fed me, made me want her more, made the hunger in my chest sharpen into something almost unbearable. Perverse as it was, I would rather have her hatred than her indifference. Indifference would have meant she’d truly let me go.

"It’s better you keep hating me, Elena," I murmured, voice steady, as if speaking to the ghost of her still lingering in the air. "Because that’s the only chance you’ve got at saving yourself from me."

Because now that I was back, now that I’d let go of my mistakes and seen the truth of what I wanted, she had no escape. Not from me. Not from this thing between us that refused, stubbornly, violently, to die.

And deep down, she knew it.

I reached for the lace panties still crumpled in my hand. Soft, delicate, taunting me with her scent, with the memory of her skin beneath my fingers. With one last smirk, I tucked them into my pocket, like a promise I had no intention of breaking.

Then I straightened, adjusted my jacket, and walked out of the dressing room, my stride slow, controlled, masking the storm I carried inside me.

The noise of the hall spilled into my ears the second I pushed the door open, but none of it mattered. The laughter, the hollow clinking of glasses, the shrill chatter of overdressed women pretending to matter. My gaze sought only one thing, the place where she had been sitting.

Empty.

My jaw clenched. I could still smell her perfume on my shirt, still feel the vibration of her voice cutting through me like a blade, still see the loathing burning in those eyes that once begged me never to let go.

I didn’t bother with the shadowed corner anymore. No. Tonight, the game needed a new move. I strode out of the safety of the darkened table beside the stage and sank into a seat in full view, not caring who saw me.

Across the room, Graham sat hunched over his phone, his forehead creased in concentration, thumbs moving like a gambler desperate to win one last bet. Pathetic. He hadn’t even realized his wife had left her seat.

Useless husband.

I leaned back in my chair, stretching one arm over the seat beside me, a picture of composure, while every nerve in my body buzzed. My lips curved in amusement as I thought, Should I thank him? His ignorance, his neglect, his blindness... it only fed me. If he knew the fire he was leaving unattended, maybe he’d guard her better. Maybe not. Either way, it made everything easier for me.

A low chuckle rumbled in my chest as I rose to my feet. I hadn’t come here for him. I hadn’t come here for their event. No, I’d only come for her. And now that I’d seen her, heard her, felt that hatred blazing like a warning flare, I had enough to keep my veins burning for days.

Time to go.

My steps were unhurried as I made my way out of the hall, past the bodies that shifted instinctively out of my way, as if they could smell the storm I carried with me. I didn’t look back, until I felt it.

Eyes.

I turned my head slightly, and there he was. Graham. His gaze locked onto mine at last, recognition flooding his face like a man who’s just seen his nightmare crawl out of the shadows. Shock widened his eyes. His lips parted, breath stuttering.

Perfect.

Slowly, deliberately, I lifted my hand and gave him a mocking little wave, a smirk tugging at my mouth. A casual gesture, yet sharp enough to cut through him like a knife.

Then I was gone.

The night air greeted me with its chill, but the fire inside me roared hotter. My car waited like a loyal beast. I slid into the driver’s seat, exhaled, and pulled a cigarette from the pack in my coat. The flame kissed the tip, and smoke curled into the darkness, mixing with the rush of adrenaline surging through my veins.

I tilted my head back against the seat and began to count down, slowly, savoring every second.

Five. A drag, smoke filling my lungs.

Four. The faint pulse of music from the hall thudded against the night.

Three. My fingers tapped the wheel.

Two. The tension tightened in the air like a drawn bowstring.

One. Right on cue, the silence was cut off by a loud voice, the heavy door slammed open, rebounding off the wall with a loud bang.

Graham stood in the doorway, breathless, his collar slightly wrinkled, his face flushed red with a volatile mix of alcohol, suspicion, and mounting panic. His eyes swept desperately before locking onto me.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!" he demanded, his voice cracking with a fury that barely masked the fear underneath it.