Chapter 42 A Mix of Dread
Elena's POV
I sat in the car longer than I actually meant to.
The engine was off, the keys still warm in my palm, and the city lights smeared across the windshield like they couldn’t decide what shape they wanted to take.
I stared straight ahead, my fingers were still locked around the steering wheel, holding it like it might anchor me to something solid if I didn’t let go.
All these is because of the regret at the pit of my stomach. Even my hands had gone numb before I noticed.
I dragged in a shallow breath like my lungs were only doing half the job.
“Get out,” I murmured to myself, the words barely more than air. “Just… get out of the car.”
My voice sounded strange and tired in the enclosed space. But I didn’t move.
I dragged in another breath before I finally reached out with a quiet click that felt far too loud in the stillness, I opened the door.
The cool night air brushed against my skin but it didn’t comfort me like I thought it would.
So I stepped out slowly and shut the door behind me with deliberate care, like any sudden noise might crack whatever fragile balance I had left.
My heels tapped softly against the pavement as I walked toward the building just like the way I’d been trained to move through the world.
From the outside, I probably looked fine.
But Inside, it felt like I was carrying invisible weights strapped to my ribs, my spine, and my throat.
The elevator ride passed in silence. I watched the numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls.
I didn’t recognize myself and that has been the case lately.
When I stepped into the penthouse, I was met with silence. I refused to turn on the lights.
The city glowed through the tall windows as I slipped my bag from my shoulder and let it fall onto the couch with a dull thud. Then my feet carried me toward the mini bar.
I didn’t rush or hesitate... my hand found the bottle easily, fingers closing around the neck as I grabbed a glass and poured without measuring.
The liquid caught the light, dark and smooth.
“To hell with it,” I whispered to myself and tipped it back.
I welcomed the fire that slid down my throat. It burned away some of the tightness, dulled the sharp edges humming beneath my skin.
Yet I poured another and another.
I let out a soft, humorless breath. “Figures.”
I swallowed the emotion that crawled up my throat and then I didn’t bother with the glass anymore. I just took the bottle with me, carrying it down the hallway, my heels discarded somewhere along the way without me remembering when.
In the bedroom, I took another long swallow before lowering myself onto the edge of the bed.
My head was clouded with Jack's name. Even my room that smelled faintly like him almost undid me.
I laughed under my breath, a quiet, broken sound. “Of course you’d still be here,” I said to the empty room. “Even when you’re not.”
My voice echoed back at me.
Then I lay down slowly, curling onto my side, turning my back to the empty half of the bed. The sheets were cool against my skin but I didn’t pull them up because I felt like I didn’t deserve comfort tonight.
My thoughts stopped forming sentences and came in flashes instead.
The flash of Jack’s face looking undefensive when I walked out of the office like I’d taken something from him without meaning to.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Jack.” I whispered into the dark. “I just— I didn’t know how else to say it.”
The room didn’t answer.
Richard’s voice surfaced next in my head, my father's terrifying stare, Layla’s hushed fear crackling through the phone, and Damien’s calm threats, spoken like promises he fully intended to keep. And beneath it all, there's me.
The version of myself I barely recognized anymore. The woman who fought so hard, planned so carefully, held everything together with sheer will… and still ended up here—curled up exhausted and alone.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the pillow.
“It’s not supposed to be like this,” I muttered. “I did everything right.”
The words tasted bitter saying it out loud.
I reached for the bottle again, and took a small sip this time.
“I don’t even know what to believe anymore,” I said softly. “About you, about them, and about me.” My voice cracked on the last word.
I curled tighter, drawing my knees up, as if I could make myself smaller and less visible to the world pressing in on me from every side.
I didn’t bother to fight the stillness that threatened to envelope me. I let it have me.
The morning light seeped reluctantly through the heavy curtains of my bedroom, cutting thin lines across the rumpled sheets and the clothes I’d discarded without care the night before. My head throbbed before my eyes fully opened.
A low groan slipped out of me as I rolled onto my back and squinted at the ceiling. My mouth was dry and my limbs felt weighted, like gravity had doubled overnight. This wasn’t just hangover, this was the unfortunate mix of alcohol mixed with grief, rage, fear, and too many unsaid things.
I pushed myself upright slowly, one hand cradling my pounding head, the other tangled in the blanket wrapped around my legs. That’s when I noticed my blazer was still hanging off one shoulder, my blouse wrinkled and clinging to my skin. I stared down at myself for a moment, disbelief curling into something almost like self-disgust. I didn't even change?
I let out a short, humorless breath as I shrugged the blazer off and let it fall to the floor, then stood carefully, unbuttoning my blouse and padded toward the bathroom.
My steps were sluggish, unsteady, like my body was moving through resistance. When I looked into the mirror, the woman staring back at me didn’t look like the Elena Vale the board knew. My mascara was smudged beneath tired eyes, coupled with my dull skin, slumped shoulders and last night’s anguish clung to me like a second skin.
“Get it together,” I muttered to my reflection, though there was no real conviction behind the words.
When I finally stepped out after washing up, I wrapped myself in a robe and dried my hair with lazy, distracted movements. My feet carried me back toward the bedroom automatically.
That was when I heard it—a soft clatter, the hum of the refrigerator door and the quiet scrape of a pan against the stovetop.
I stopped cold.
Jack...
I've missed him.
My fingers curled around the doorframe, my throat tightening for reasons that had nothing to do with my headache. I hadn’t expected him—not after the way I’d snapped at him yesterday, not after I’d thrown my fear at his feet like an accusation.
But he was here, he always comes back.
I took a slow breath, the smell of eggs and toast drifting toward me, grounding and oddly intimate. I pressed my fingers to my temples, then forced myself to move.
Each step toward the kitchen felt cautious, like I didn’t know what version of him I’d find on the other side.
When I stepped in, the morning sunlight felt too bright, spilling through the windows with merciless clarity. My eyes adjusted slowly, but they found him instantly.
Jack stood at the stove, spatula in hand. He looked… tired. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of my footsteps, our eyes meeting for just a beat before he looked away again.
“Morning,” he said like he was careful with his tone.
“Good morning,” I replied, quieter than I meant to.
He plated the food without comment and set it in front of me like it was routine, like yesterday hadn’t happened and like I hadn’t tried to push him away with words I couldn’t take back.
I sat at the island, picking at the eggs more out of obligation than hunger. The silence pressed in, heavy but not hostile.
I hated it.
“Jack,” I said finally and resisted the urge to bit my lip.
He paused, then looked up.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “About yesterday.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“You were hurting,” he said.
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I get it.”
Something in my chest loosened and tightened at the same time.
Then he exhaled slowly, his fingers curling around the edge of the table once before he spoke again.
“My father’s in the hospital.”
The words landed like a quiet detonation.
His father?
I froze. “You found him?”
He nodded. “Last night.”
My heart sank. “Is he…?”
“He's alive,” he said. “But unconscious. ICU.”
I stood and crossed the space between us without thinking, my hand finding his arm. “Jack… I’m so sorry.”
He looked down at my hand, then back at me, something raw flickering in his expression.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” he admitted. “I spent years thinking he chose to disappear. And now he’s just… there. My thoughts are everywhere, don't even know what to think anymore.”
I swallowed. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once.”
He gave a small, tired huff. “Says the woman carrying the weight of an entire empire.”
I met his gaze. “Then maybe we both stop carrying things alone.” I muttered like I wasn't carrying the weight of my doubt about him.