Chapter 729 Elliot, Please Don't Hate Me
Molly was cradled in his arms, her cheek pressed to the unyielding wall of his chest.
The steady thud of his heartbeat was muffled beneath the fine weave of his shirt, but she could feel it all the same—solid, steady, inescapable.
His scent surrounded her, clean and masculine, tinged with the faint bite of cologne and something darker, more seasoned than the boy she remembered.
She turned her face in, hiding against him, as if the shadow beneath his jaw could shield her from the sting gathering in her eyes.
She hadn't cried when she'd been hurt. She hadn't cried when Celine and Katya had torn into each other with claws bared.
But now, with this fleeting trace of gentleness from Elliot—the warmth of his body, the way his hold steadied her—her defenses cracked. The tears came silently, hot and unbidden.
Letting go of the last scrap of pride, she whispered into the fabric of his shirt, "Elliot… you still care about me, don't you?"
His body went rigid, the rhythm of his stride faltering for half a second.
A beat later, his mouth curved into a cold, humorless smile. "Molly, you're imagining things. After what you did, do you think I could still feel anything for you? Do you think there's any room left between us for feelings?"
The words were sharp enough to cut, but he didn't stop there.
His voice dropped, almost lazy in its cruelty, "I'm only making sure you don't pass out while I'm in the middle of fucking you."
The vulgarity hit like a slap. Her breath caught; for a moment she could only stare at him, dazed.
After a long pause, she murmured, "I understand."
To him, she was shameless.
When he set her down in the car, she surprised him by looping her arms around his neck.
Her voice was soft, almost fragile, "Elliot… please, don't hate me anymore."
"Don't hate me. Take care of yourself. Three months from now, if you're tired of me, we'll walk away. Find a good woman, build a life. Don't let someone like me scar you forever." But none of that made it past her lips.
His eyes burned red, his voice rough, almost a growl, "Molly, what game are you playing now? Do you think I'll fall for the same tricks twice?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she rested her face against the warm skin at the crook of his neck, breathing him in, holding on to the moment as if it might be the last.
Behind them, Katya's voice rose in the distance, shrill with fury as she fought with the director.
She was threatening to blacklist him from the industry.
The director only laughed, the sound low and scornful. "Blacklist me? Katya, I've shown you respect because of your seniority. But you've crossed the wrong person. You saw Elliot's face just now—he's here for Molly. Tell me, what power do you have to go against the Windsor family?"
The words dripped with contempt. Katya's face flushed crimson, and she lunged at him.
Celine had enjoyed the show, but once the dust settled, her mind was already moving ahead.
Molly was young, blind to the way men worked. Celine could see it clearly—Elliot's feelings for her were tangled, equal parts love and hate.
If Molly could secure a better future, Celine wouldn't stand in her way.
Elliot took Molly straight to the Montague Group Hospital.
As Taylor's cousin, he bypassed the waiting room entirely and had her treated at once.
The female doctor froze when she recognized Molly—one of the most talked-about actresses of the moment. Then her gaze flicked to Elliot, and the gossip died in her eyes. She focused on the wound.
When the bandage came off, she cleaned the cut with alcohol.
Molly's lips pressed tight, her face pale.
"There's a small shard of glass inside," the doctor said gently. "It's lucky Mr. Windsor brought you in. If it got infected…"
Molly whispered a thank-you.
The doctor smiled faintly. "She's a delicate one. Hold her steady, Mr. Windsor. Boyfriends are supposed to do that."
Elliot didn't bother to explain. He stepped forward, and Molly's small frame fit against him as if she'd been made for it.
Sitting, her face was level with his abdomen, her weight feather-light in his arms. He ignored the strange pull in his chest.
The doctor worked quickly. When she removed the shard, Molly's fingers dug into the muscle at his waist, her body trembling like a wounded dove.
Without thinking, Elliot's hand came up, pulling her closer against him.
From the hospital, he didn't take her to the hotel. Instead, he drove to the street near their old school—a stretch lined with cheap food stalls and cramped little restaurants. They had come here together years ago. Now, with his wealth and status, she hadn't expected him to set foot here again.
She hesitated when she stepped out of the car. He glanced at her, his tone flat, "What? Too low-class for a big star?"
She shook her head. "No. I just didn't expect you to come here."
He didn't reply. In truth, Elliot rarely spoke when they were together. Even that night in the suite, after hours in bed, they'd exchanged fewer than ten sentences.
Inside a small barbecue place, he ordered without asking her opinion—two platters of meat, some vegetables, a glass of lemon water for her, plain water for himself.
They ate in silence until Molly finally asked, "Have you dated anyone these past years?"
He looked at her, then said evenly, "No. If I marry, it will be for business."
The message was clear—she shouldn't get any ideas. His wife would never be an actress, and certainly not a woman with a tarnished reputation.
Molly nodded.
"That's good," she said softly.
In her heart, she had already accepted it. For him, these three months were revenge. For her, they were stolen happiness. That was enough.
She smiled at him—pure, unguarded. Like winter yielding to spring. Something in his chest tightened.
Yet his expression stayed untouched, the same unyielding coldness as ever.
He couldn't eat spicy food, and soon his face flushed. She pushed her lemon water toward him. "Elliot, drink this. It'll help."
He stared at her, that old, dangerous pull in his chest returning. He hated it.
"Why did you lie to me back then?" he asked suddenly.
Her hand froze midair. Color drained from her face.
His mood soured. Later, at the hotel, she was still hurt, but he didn't care. He took her anyway, rougher than before. By the time he was done, it was past one. He left her sprawled, boneless, while he showered.
She thought he would leave, but he came back in a robe, stepped onto the balcony for a cigarette, then slid into bed beside her. Her hair fanned across the pillow, her body barely moving with each breath.
"Do you want more?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer. His phone rang—Oliver. Elliot gave her a look to stay quiet and answered, "Business trip. Not coming home tonight."
Oliver snorted. "Business trip? Is that what you call it when your dick takes a trip?"
Elliot said nothing.
"Do what you want," Oliver went on, "but stop lying to yourself. Regret is a heavy thing to carry."
"I know, Dad," Elliot rasped.
"You know shit."
Oliver knew exactly what was going on. If Elliot couldn't let Molly go, he should date her. Treat her right. This half-assed arrangement was nothing but cruelty.
When the call ended, Elliot studied Molly in his arms. She was pliant tonight, different from last time—no resistance, clinging to him, whispering his name until his blood ran hot. No man could resist that.
He twined a lock of her hair around his finger. "Didn't you want the M&E Technology endorsement? There's a product that suits you. I'll have the ad department send you a contract. Eight million a year."
It was a top-tier rate. To him, it was just part of the transaction—resources for her company in exchange for her body.
Three months, and he'd be done. It was a fair price to bury a foolish, youthful dream.
He hated her. He didn't care what she thought, only what he wanted. And what he wanted, he took.
He pushed her down again, this time with an edge meant to humiliate. Her dignity was stripped away.
Under the crystal light, his face was twisted with desire, nothing like the man who had held her so carefully in the hospital. She cried, but still wrapped her arms around his waist, trying to please him.
His eyes were dark, cutting into her.
He gripped her chin and said coldly, "It's useless, Molly. You have no idea how much I hate you. After all this time in the industry, you can't even tell the difference between love and being used?"
And then he showed her exactly what being used meant.
She knew. Every thrust, every touch was nothing like before—no tenderness, only the raw, cold mechanics of sex.
But she didn't fight back. She let him take everything, and when it hurt too much, she only let out the softest sounds.