chapter 159
Elena's POV:
My hands trembled as I stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the woman who wore my mother's face.
The same delicate features, the same way of tilting her head slightly when uncertain. Even the way she clasped her hands in front of her was achingly familiar.
"Elena." She said my name again, softer this time, as if testing whether I was real.
I should have run to her. Should have cried, or screamed, or done something other than stand there like a statue while my mind tried to reconcile the impossible.
This woman had been dead for years. I'd stood at her grave countless times, had whispered secrets to cold stone and wilted flowers.
Sebastian's hand pressed gently against my lower back, a silent reminder that he was there. The warmth of his palm through the silk of my dress anchored me to the present, kept me from shattering completely.
"Mom?" The word escaped as a broken whisper before I could stop it. My feet moved of their own accord, carrying me forward in stumbling steps. "Mom!"
I crashed into her, arms wrapping around her slight frame with desperate force.
She stiffened at first, her body rigid as marble beneath my embrace. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and vanilla, exactly as I remembered—made my knees buckle.
"My baby," she breathed, and something in her voice cracked.
Her arms came up slowly, hesitantly, before tightening around me with surprising strength. Her fingers trembled as they smoothed over my hair, my back.
"I thought you were dead," I sobbed into her shoulder, clutching her designer jacket like a lifeline. "All these years, I thought... The grave, the flowers, everything. How could you let me believe—"
My voice broke completely. "Please don't leave again. Please. I can't lose you twice."
She pulled back slightly, her hands cupping my face.
Her eyes swept over me with clinical precision, lingering on my swollen belly. "Look at you," she murmured, sidestepping my plea entirely. "Pregnant. Are you eating properly? Getting enough rest? You look pale."
John observed our embrace with the satisfaction of a chess player watching pieces fall into place.
His lips curved into that same calculating smile I'd seen moments before. "Such a touching reunion," he said smoothly. "The bond between mother and daughter—there's nothing quite like it, is there? Nothing one wouldn't do for family."
He turned to Sebastian, gesturing toward the house with deliberate casualness.
"Why don't we give the ladies some privacy? I believe you mentioned an interest in my boxing collection earlier."
Sebastian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
His hand found mine, squeezing gently before letting go. "Boxing sounds perfect," he said, matching John's tone with dangerous precision. "I've been feeling the need to hit something."
John's laugh drifted back to us, sharp as broken glass. "Excellent. I have a fully equipped ring in the east wing. Perhaps we can... work out some of that energy."
As they disappeared through the doorway, I caught the predatory gleam in Sebastian's eyes.
Left alone with my mother, I finally took in the details I'd been too overwhelmed to notice before.
The designer suit that probably cost more than most people's cars. The flawless makeup —subtle, expensive work that made her look a decade younger than her years. The diamonds at her throat and wrists that caught the light with every movement.
"You've been living well," I said quietly, stepping back from her embrace.
She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt, not meeting my eyes. "John has been generous."
I didn't know how to name the emotion that twisted through my chest. Relief warred with something darker, more complex.
Part of me felt genuinely glad to see her healthy and cared for. She wasn't thin from deprivation or hollow-eyed from grief. She'd been safe, comfortable, even pampered.
But beneath that relief lurked a hollow ache I couldn't quite shake.
All those nights I'd cried myself to sleep at Sterling's house, all those birthdays spent whispering wishes to an empty grave, all those moments when I'd needed a mother's comfort and found only silence—she'd been here. Choosing diamonds over her daughter.
The feeling sat heavy in my stomach, unnamed and unwelcome. I was happy she hadn't suffered. I was. But God, I wished that happiness didn't taste so much like abandonment.
"Dad died thinking you were dead too," I continued, watching her face carefully. "He died loving a ghost."
She glanced at her diamond watch with the same detachment someone might show when hearing about a traffic delay.
"That's unfortunate," she said, her tone so neutral she might have been discussing the weather. "But dwelling on the past won't change anything."
I swallowed hard, recognizing the futility of pressing further. She had a new life now, a new family. What right did I have to drag her back into old grief?
"I became a perfumer," I said instead, grasping for safer ground. "I even entered the International Fragrance Competition this year. "
Her face brightened with something that almost looked like genuine interest. "How wonderful! You always did have a sensitive nose, even as a child."
She tilted her head, studying me with those familiar yet foreign eyes. "You must have worked very hard to get so far. "
Very hard. The words echoed hollowly in my chest. Yes, I'd worked hard. Through Rebecca's endless demands and Vivienne's cruel games. Through the devastation of watching my life's work claimed by another, my name was erased from my own creation.
But I chose to say none of it. "Yes," I said simply. "It's been quite a journey."
The stranger wearing my mother's face smiled, pleased with this sanitized version of my life. And I smiled back, because what else was there to do?
The woman I'd mourned was truly gone. In her place stood someone who looked like her, sounded like her, but felt nothing like the mother I'd built from memories and longing.
A commotion from the house shattered our stilted conversation.
The butler came rushing across the hall, his usually composed face flushed with panic.
"Mrs. Smith," he panted, skidding to a stop before us. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Smith and Mr. Vane... the boxing match has gotten rather out of hand. They're—"
He paused, searching for diplomatic words. "If they continue at this intensity, I fear someone will require medical attention."