chapter 157
Elena's POV:
My entire world narrowed to that single figure by the water's edge.
I couldn't be seeing this. She was dead. Had been dead for years. I'd stood at her grave just days ago, touched the cold stone that bore her name.
"Elena?" Sebastian's voice came from very far away, urgent and frightened. His hands found my shoulders, steadying me. "Baby, breathe. Take deep breaths for me."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at the impossible.
"We need to go home," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "Right now, Elena. Can you walk?"
Home. Yes. I needed to get away from here, away from whatever madness was making me see ghosts in broad daylight. I managed a jerky nod.
"Okay." I heard myself say, though the word sounded hollow, distant. "Okay, let's... let's go home."
Luna rushed over, her face creased with worry. "Elena, what's wrong? You look like you've seen—"
"I'm sorry," I managed, forcing myself to look at her instead of the woman by the lake. "I'll... I'll explain later, Luna. I promise. I just need to go."
"But you're shaking! Are you in pain? Is it the baby?"
"Luna." Michael's voice was firm as he placed a hand on her arm. "Let them go."
"But—"
"Not now," he said quietly, though his eyes remained on Sebastian with an unreadable expression.
Sebastian's arm came around my waist, supporting most of my weight as we made our way to the car. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on not looking back, on not screaming at the impossibility of what I'd just seen.
The ride home felt both endless and far too short. Sebastian held me the entire way, his presence solid and reassuring even as my world tilted off its axis.
Neither of us spoke. What was there to say?
When we finally reached the penthouse, my legs were steadier, though Sebastian still kept his arm around me as we made our way inside.
The moment the elevator doors closed behind us, I pulled away from his embrace and headed straight for my studio.
My hands shook as I pulled out the old photo album from the bottom drawer where I'd hidden it months ago. There she was—my mother, holding white lilies, her smile radiant and alive.
I traced her face with trembling fingers, my vision blurring as tears threatened to fall.
The woman in the park had worn the same face. The same elegant posture that had once made me feel so safe.
"She's not dead." The words escaped in a broken whisper, my fingernails digging into my palms. "My father is dead, but she's not dead..."
All those years of grieving, of missing her, of watching my father waste away from heartbreak—and she'd been alive. Somewhere out there, breathing, living, while we buried him.
I heard footsteps behind me, but didn't turn. I couldn't face Sebastian yet, not when I was this close to shattering completely.
"You knew, didn't you?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "You've known she was alive."
A pause. Then, quietly: "I found out a few weeks ago." Sebastian's voice carried an unfamiliar note of uncertainty. "After Robert's death, when you were so devastated... I couldn't bring myself to tell you. Not when you were already drowning in grief."
I closed my eyes, processing this. Of course, he'd kept it from me—that was Sebastian, always trying to shield me from pain, even when it meant carrying secrets that must have weighed on him. I couldn't blame him for that. Not when I knew he'd done it out of love.
"I understand," I said finally, and meant it.
My fingers stilled on the photograph as my mind began to work. Scarlett—my mother—hadn't just disappeared. She'd chosen to stay away for years. Chosen to let us believe she was dead. And now, suddenly, she was back.
Why now? What had changed? What's their agenda?
I took a slow breath, feeling the chaos in my chest settle into cold determination. "I want to see her."
"Elena—"
"I need to see her, Sebastian." I turned to face him at last, meeting his worried gaze steadily. "My mother is alive. Whatever her reasons for staying away, whatever game she's playing now—I need to know."
My voice was perfectly calm, almost conversational.
Something flickered across his face—concern, maybe, or recognition that my tranquility was anything but natural. He stepped closer, studying me with those penetrating dark eyes.
"All right," he said carefully. "I'll have Marcus make the arrangements."
I blinked, surprised by how quickly he'd agreed. No arguments, no attempts to dissuade me—just immediate acceptance. It made me wonder exactly how far his support would extend.
"Just like that?" I asked softly. "What if I wanted to do something... worse? Would you still support me then?"
The question was a test, and we both knew it. I watched his face, waiting for the moment he'd draw a line, set a boundary, tell me what I couldn't do.
Instead, his hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone with unexpected tenderness.
"Whatever you need to do, Elena. Whatever it takes to give you peace—I'm with you." His lips curved in a wry smile. "Though honestly? I'd rather see you protect yourself better."
I felt something dark and grateful unfurl in my chest.
When he pulled me against him and guided us toward the bedroom, I didn't resist.
We lay together in the gathering dusk, his arms around me, my head on his chest. To anyone watching, we might have looked peaceful.
But I could feel the tension in his body, the careful way he held me—as if I might shatter or explode. And perhaps he was right to be cautious.
Because as I lay there listening to his heartbeat, my mind was already working through possibilities, analyzing motivations, preparing for whatever truth awaited me when I finally faced the woman who'd chosen death over staying with us.