chapter 158
Elena's POV:
My hands were steady as I arranged my hair the next morning, humming softly while I worked.
The melody was something Mother used to sing—funny how these fragments surfaced when you least expected them.
In the mirror, I caught Sebastian watching me from the doorway, his expression caught between relief and wariness.
"Good morning," I said, turning to smile at him. The smile came easily, naturally, as if yesterday hadn't shattered everything I'd believed about my life.
He crossed the room in three strides, hands hovering near my shoulders without quite touching. "How are you feeling?"
"Perfect." I rose, stretching slightly. "What would you like for breakfast? I was thinking of asking for those crepes you love."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Elena—"
"Or perhaps pancakes? I know the babies seem to prefer sweeter things lately." I moved past him toward the kitchen, my steps light despite the weight I carried. "Oh, we're nearly out of that lavender honey from the farmer's market. Could you ask Marcus to pick up more?"
"Of course." His voice was careful, controlled. "Whatever you need."
What I needed was answers. What I needed was to understand why my mother had chosen to let us believe she was dead. What I needed was to look into her eyes and see if any love remained there, or if we'd been discarded as easily as old clothing.
But first, breakfast.
I settled across from him with my own plate, cutting my crepe into precise, even pieces.
"Marcus called earlier," he said after a few minutes of silence. "He's managed to locate the Smiths. They're staying at the Rosewood Hotel downtown."
My hand paused for just a moment before continuing its smooth motion. "That's fine."
"They've declined all meeting requests so far."
"Well, that's rather rude, isn't it?" I took a delicate bite, chewing thoughtfully.
Sebastian set down his fork. "Elena—"
"I think perhaps we should pay them a visit in person." I met his gaze calmly. "Today, if possible. It's only proper that the younger generation pays respects to their elders, don't you think?"
He leaned back in his chair, studying me with those dark eyes that saw too much. "This isn't about propriety."
No, it's about keeping you safe, I thought, my heart clenching at the possibility of the Smiths threatening him, of Sebastian holding back because of me. I might yearn for a mother's love, might feel that old ache in my chest, but I wasn't fool enough to trust blindly. Not anymore.
Though if somehow this could end well—if there was even the slightest chance of salvaging something from this wreckage—then all the better.
"You said you'd support whatever I needed to do," I said instead, keeping my voice light. "Has that changed?"
He was quiet for a long moment, then sighed, already reaching for his phone. "I'll have the car ready in an hour."
"Make it two. I want to look my best when I meet my mother."
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and deliberate. Sebastian's knuckles went white around his phone, but he simply nodded.
"Two hours," he agreed quietly.
I smiled again, bright and empty. "Wonderful. I'll wear the blue dress—you know, the one that brings out my eyes. Mother always said I looked lovely in blue."
As I rose to clear the plates, I felt his hand catch mine, gentle but firm.
"Whatever you're planning," he said, voice low and urgent, "whatever you need to do—I'm with you. But please, don't shut me out."
I looked down at our joined hands, at the wedding ring that caught the morning light. For a moment, the mask slipped, and he must have seen something in my eyes that made him inhale sharply.
"I will."
---
Two hours later.
Marcus drove us through the city toward the Rosewood Hotel. I'd chosen my outfit carefully—the blue dress, my mother's pearl earrings that I'd kept all these years, my wedding ring prominent on my finger. Armor disguised as elegance.
The Rosewood lobby was all marble and crystal, the kind of place that whispered old money in every carefully curated detail. Marcus had called ahead; the Smith family's butler was already waiting by the private elevators.
"Lord and Lady Vane," he intoned with practiced deference. "Mr. and Mrs. Smith are expecting you in the penthouse suite."
The elevator ride felt endless. Sebastian's hand found mine, squeezing gently, but I couldn't return the pressure. All my strength was focused on maintaining the calm facade I'd need for what was coming.
The penthouse doors opened onto a foyer larger than most apartments. Everything was white and gold, sterile in its perfection. The butler led us through to a sitting room where floor-to-ceiling windows offered a commanding view of the city.
John Smith stood with his back to us, hands clasped behind him in a pose of studied authority. He didn't turn when we entered.
"The Lord and Lady Vane," the butler announced unnecessarily.
John finally deigned to face us, his smile sharp and calculating. "Lord Vane. And the lovely Elena." His gaze swept over me with an appraiser's eye, lingering on my swollen belly. "You're even more beautiful than your photos suggest."
"Mr. Smith." Sebastian's voice could have frozen hellfire. "I believe my wife prefers to be addressed formally by those she's just met."
"Of course." John's smile never wavered. "My apologies, Lady Vane. Please, sit. My wife will join us momentarily."
I lowered myself carefully onto the cream sofa, Sebastian taking position beside me like a guardian. The room was too quiet, too perfect, like a stage set waiting for the drama to begin.
Then she appeared.
She moved like a ghost, silent and ethereal, pausing in the doorway. She wore a simple gray dress that made her look younger, more vulnerable.
"Elena." The name escaped her like a prayer.