chapter 21
Elena's POV:
The first thing I registered when consciousness slowly filtered back was warmth. Not just the ambient temperature of the penthouse bedroom, but the specific kind of heat that came from another person's body pressed against mine.
Sebastian's arm was draped across my waist, his breathing slow and even against the back of my neck, and for a disorienting moment, I couldn't quite reconcile this peaceful scene with everything that had brought us here.
Last night felt like a turning point, though I wasn't entirely sure toward what.
I shifted slightly, testing whether he was truly asleep, and felt his arm tighten reflexively around me.
"Good morning, sweetheart," his voice rumbled low against my ear, rough with sleep.
"Morning," I murmured back, surprised by how natural it felt to stay nestled against him.
Sebastian's hand moved to rest against my stomach, fingers splaying protectively over the place where our child was growing, still too small to show but large enough to have changed everything between us.
The gesture was becoming a habit with him, this unconscious claim on both of us.
"I was thinking," he said carefully, in that tone he used when he was about to suggest something he suspected I wouldn't like, "you could come with me to the office today."
I turned in his arms to face him, studying his expression in the morning light filtering through the curtains.
"To do what, exactly?" I asked. "Sit in the corner of your boardroom and look decorative?"
"I just think," he said, though I could tell he was trying to sound casual, "you might get bored here by yourself all day."
I hesitated, considering his words. He wasn't wrong—now that I'd abandoned my escape plans and settled into this strange state of surrender, I suddenly found myself facing long, empty hours with nothing to occupy my mind.
Before, every moment had been consumed with plotting, scheming, and waiting for opportunities. Now there was just... nothing.
"Actually," I said slowly, an idea forming, "I've been thinking about my old work. Fragrance composition. I used to love creating new scents, developing unique profiles..."
Sebastian's brow furrowed immediately. "Elena, you're pregnant. Those chemicals—"
"That's exactly why I want to do this," I interrupted, shifting closer to him with what I hoped was persuasive enthusiasm. "I've always wanted to design a completely natural, pregnancy-safe fragrance line. Something beautiful but harmless, using only the gentlest botanical extracts."
I let my fingers trace along his jawline as I spoke, adopting the soft, coaxing tone that seemed to work so well with him.
"It would be perfect timing, actually. I could research safe ingredients, work with completely natural components. No synthetic chemicals, no harsh processing. Just pure, beautiful scents that won't harm the baby."
Sebastian studied my face intently, clearly torn between his protective instincts and his desire to give me something that would make me happy.
"You'd work from here?" he asked finally.
"Of course," I said quickly. "You could set up a proper lab space in one of the spare rooms. I wouldn't need to go anywhere or meet with anyone—just focus on the creative process."
I could practically see him running through potential safety concerns and security issues in his mind.
"Please, Sebastian," I added softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest. "I miss creating things. I miss having a purpose beyond just existing here."
Something shifted in his expression, and I knew I'd won.
"Fine," he said, his hand moving to cup my face. "I'll have Marcus arrange for everything you need. But," he added firmly, "everything gets cleared through a specialist first. No exceptions."
I smiled up at him, genuine gratitude mixing with relief. "Thank you."
After breakfast, Sebastian kissed me goodbye with his usual lingering reluctance, reminding me to call if I needed anything.
While I waited for the equipment to arrive, I settled onto the sofa with my phone to catch up on industry news, curious about what developments I'd missed during my absence from the fragrance world.
I scrolled through posts about fragrance launches and perfumery competitions, job announcements at prestigious perfume houses, and collaboration requests, when a notification from my old university forum popped up in the recommended posts.
My name appeared in the preview text, and curiosity got the better of me—I clicked into it without really thinking.
"Whatever happened to Elena Ross?" Read the thread title, and a sinking feeling of dread settled in my stomach as I clicked into it.
The discussion below was worse than I could have imagined.
Speculation about my disappearance ranged from academic failure to family scandal, but the most popular theory seemed to be that I'd been "kept" by some wealthy benefactor and was now too ashamed to show my face in respectable circles.
"She was always too pretty for her own good," one comment read. "Probably found herself a sugar daddy and decided perfumery school was too much work."
"Let's be honest, she was never that talented anyway," someone else chimed in. "All looks, no substance. The professors only gave her good grades because she was easy on the eyes."
"Unlike Vivienne Sterling, who's been working her ass off this whole time," another user added. "That girl is the perfect combination of beauty and talent. Elena could never compete with someone like that."
"Exactly! Vivienne represents everything a modern perfumer should be—gorgeous, brilliant, and hardworking. Elena was just coasting on her appearance until she found an easier meal ticket."
"Such a waste when you compare her to Vivienne Sterling," read another comment that made my stomach churn. "Vivienne's flower collection is absolutely revolutionary—she's already signed with three major perfume houses. That's what happens when you have both beauty AND brains."
Thread after thread praising Vivienne Sterling—my father's new family's golden child—for her meteoric rise in the fragrance world.
Photos of her signature scent bottles, articles about her innovative fragrance compositions, and interviews where she discussed her "natural nose for scent" with practiced humility.
And there, displayed with pride in several posts, were formulations I recognized.
Fragrance profiles I'd created during late nights at my desk, scent combinations I'd poured my heart into during the darkest periods of living under my stepmother's roof.
Now they bore Vivienne's signature, her story, her acclaim.
My fingers flew across the screen as I traced the digital breadcrumbs of these vicious posts. It didn't take long—Vivienne had never been particularly careful about covering her tracks, especially when she underestimated her opponents.
The same IP address, the same linguistic patterns, even the same petty vindictiveness that I remembered from our shared childhood home.
I should have seen this coming. Vivienne had been competing with me since we were children, always needing to prove she was better, smarter, more deserving than me.
When I'd started showing real talent in school—winning art competitions, earning scholarship recommendations—she'd throw increasingly desperate tantrums until my stepmother had started sabotaging my opportunities just to keep the peace.
She'd probably thought a full year of silence meant I was truly gone. Time to show her exactly how wrong she was.
I navigated to my old photo albums, scrolling through images I'd nearly forgotten from my final months at home. There—a series of pictures I'd taken during one of my stepmother's charity galas, when I'd accidentally stumbled upon something I wasn't supposed to see.
Vivienne was in a side room with not one but two very married board members from a major fragrance house, her dress disheveled and her intentions unmistakable.
I created an anonymous account and began uploading the images, each one accompanied by timestamps and location data that would make them impossible to dismiss as fabrications.
Let the fragrance world see exactly what kind of "dedicated professional" they'd been celebrating.
If Vivienne wanted a war, she'd have one.