Chapter 156
Elena's POV
"Nothing much. Just went quiet and hung up." Lila studied my face. "Should I not have told him?"
"No, you—" I rubbed my temples, trying to think through the implications. "You did fine. I just... I don't know what he's planning."
The unease that had been building in my gut all morning crystallized into something sharper.
Lila was watching me with concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I squeezed her hand. "Let's clean this place up, okay? You'll feel better once it's not a disaster zone."
She nodded, and we spent the next hour restoring order to her apartment. As we worked, she pulled a garment bag from her closet, unzipping it to reveal a purple slip dress with thin straps, tags still attached.
"What's this?" I asked.
Her expression went complicated—sad and bitter and resigned all at once. "Bought it a week ago. Thought maybe if I wore something like this around Ethan, he'd see me as a woman instead of a kid." She laughed, but it came out hollow. "But never got the chance to put it on. Pretty pathetic, right?"
"Lila—"
"Here." She shoved the bag at me. "You take it. No point letting it go to waste."
"I can't—"
"Please." Her voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to look at it anymore. It just reminds me of how stupid I've been."
I looked at her face—at the raw hurt there—and couldn't bring myself to refuse. "Okay. Thank you."
We'd just finished tidying when my phone rang. The caller ID made me freeze.
Isabella
My first instinct was to let it go to voicemail. Nothing good ever came from Isabella calling me directly. But something in my gut twisted with anxiety, and I found myself answering.
"Hello?"
"Elena." Her voice was tight, controlled in that way that meant she was barely holding it together. "I need your help."
I gripped the phone harder. "Mrs. Vance, I don't think—"
"Damon needs to see you." She cut me off, words coming fast. "Can you come to Vance Manor? Today?"
"I can't. We're over. You know that."
"I know." A pause, heavy with something. "But he's asking for you specifically. And he's... Elena, he's not well."
"What do you mean?"
"Marcus has him locked up." Her voice cracked slightly. "It's been two days. Won't eat, won't drink. The only thing he's said is that he wants to talk to you."
"Mrs. Vance, I can't just—" I swallowed hard. "It's not appropriate for me to—"
"I know what I'm asking." She sounded exhausted now, all pretense of authority stripped away. "I know you don't owe him anything. That he treated you terribly. But I'm begging you, Elena. Please. He's going to hurt himself if this continues, and I—I don't know what else to do."
---
Isabella's POV
Last night
I stood outside Damon's door, holding a tray of soup and bread. Marcus had ordered the locks changed, the windows reinforced with silver bars. Damon had refused every meal I'd brought him.
The backup key felt heavy in my pocket as I slipped it into the lock, turning it as quietly as I could. Marcus had forbidden me from entering, but I couldn't—wouldn't—stand by and watch Damon destroy himself.
The room was a disaster. Overturned plates, cold food congealing on the carpet, scattered clothing. And in the middle of it all, Damon lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes.
"You need to eat something," I said softly, setting the tray on his nightstand. Steam from the soup curled up between us.
He didn't move. Didn't even blink.
I sank into the chair by his bed, suddenly exhausted. "You're punishing yourself."
"I'm not hungry." His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
The words hit me harder than they should have.
"Damon—"
"Did you come here to lecture me?" He finally turned his head, meeting my eyes. They looked empty. Defeated. "Because I've heard enough from Father."
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to maintain composure. "I came because you're my son. Because watching you waste away in this room is killing me."
Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or shame. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that terrible emptiness again.
"Then don't watch," he said simply, turning back to the ceiling.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I tried to find the right words, the ones that would somehow reach him through whatever wall he'd built around himself.
But nothing came. For the first time in my life, I had no idea how to fix this.
"I'll leave the food," I managed finally. "In case you change your mind."
---
Damon's POV
When I finally dragged myself to sitting position, the soup was still warm. My stomach cramped with hunger, but the sight of food made me nauseous.
I picked up the bowl anyway, more out of habit than desire, took a mechanical sip, and set it back down. It tasted like nothing.
Ever since I'd watched Elena pull Caleb toward her at that engagement ceremony. Ever since I'd realized what I'd actually lost.
The spoon clattered back into the bowl. I couldn't do this. Couldn't sit here and pretend everything was fine, that I could just have some soup and move on like Mother wanted.
I shoved the tray away and lay back down, one arm thrown over my eyes to block out the afternoon light streaming through the barred windows.
My phone sat on the nightstand, silent and accusatory. Over a dozen missed calls from Scarlett.
I'd turned it face-down after the first few. Couldn't stand seeing her name flash across the screen, couldn't handle the reminder of how spectacularly I'd fucked everything up.
Your fault, a voice whispered in my head. All of it. Every single piece.
Elena's face swam behind my closed eyelids—the way she used to be, always so quiet and agreeable, never contradicting me about anything.
When had it changed? When had she started looking at me like I was a stranger? Like I was the problem?
You know exactly when.
Yeah. I did. It was gradual at first—small moments of distance, tiny rebellions I'd brushed off as mood swings or stress. Then bigger ones. Her pulling away when I touched her. That careful politeness that felt more cutting than outright anger.
I'd told myself it was temporary. That she was going through a phase. That eventually she'd remember she was supposed to be mine.
Except she wasn't. Had never been, probably. And now—
My hands clenched into fists against the mattress. Now she was with him. With Caleb fucking Vance, the bastard I'd spent years making sure stayed in his place.