chapter 164
Sebastian's POV:
Blood. The sight of it spreading across those torn photographs froze something primal in my chest.
"Elena." Her name came out sharper than intended as I crossed to her in three strides.
The scissors clattered from her fingers as I caught her wrist, examining the cut. Not deep, thank God, but bleeding steadily enough to alarm me.
She didn't even seem to notice. Her eyes remained fixed on the mutilated photos scattered across the marble, each torn face a small victory and defeat combined. Scarlett Smith smiled up at us in pieces—here an eye, there half a lying mouth.
"Let me see," I said, gentling my voice as I guided her to the kitchen.
She moved like a sleepwalker, allowing me to lead her, press a clean towel to the wound.
"I'm fine," she finally whispered, though we both knew she meant anything but.
Regret crashed through me like a physical blow. I should never have taken her to see Scarlett.
These past few days, Elena had seemed so composed, so unaffected. She'd spoken of her mother with clinical detachment, analyzed the situation with cool logic. I'd been fool enough to believe her performance.
But perhaps she'd fooled even herself.
I'd seen the photo albums she kept hidden in her studio—careful documentation of a happier time. A little girl who believed in the fairy tale of her perfect family. Even after it shattered, she'd clung to those memories like life rafts, drawing strength from the fiction that once, she'd been loved unconditionally.
Now even that illusion lay in pieces at our feet. Her father was dead. Her mother had never truly been hers anymore.
I watched her stare at nothing, mechanically allowing me to clean and bandage her wound, and realized that some essential corner of her inner world had quietly collapsed. Yet still she maintained this terrible composure, this hollow normalcy that frightened me more than any amount of screaming would have.
"I think I'm dreaming," she said suddenly, her voice distant and strange. "None of this feels real anymore. Maybe if I go to sleep, I'll wake up and discover the last year was just—"
"Come on," I interrupted gently, guiding her toward our bedroom. "Let's get you to bed."
She followed without resistance, that sleepwalker quality intensifying. I helped her out of her clothes with careful, non-sexual efficiency. She crawled under the covers like a child seeking shelter from monsters.
"Sleep," I murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking her hair. "Just sleep, love. I'll be right here."
"You won't leave?" The vulnerability in her voice cracked something in my chest.
"Never," I promised. "Close your eyes. I'll keep watch."
I stayed until her breathing evened out, until the tension finally left her features in unconsciousness. Only then did I carefully extract myself, pressing a kiss to her forehead before retreating to the living room.
The darkness suited my mood. I sat in my usual chair, an unlit cigarette between my fingers, though I hadn't actually smoked in years. The weight of it was comfort enough, something to occupy my hands while my mind raced.
After an hour of futile brooding, I finally reached for my phone.
I typed out a brief message, knowing he kept odd hours: Dr. Klein, I apologize for the late contact. Elena needs to see you tomorrow if possible. She's had a difficult day.
I made my way back to our bedroom. Elena was tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, whimpering softly in the grip of some nightmare. I fetched a cool washcloth from the bathroom and gently wiped her face, her neck, the delicate skin of her arms.
"Shh," I murmured as she stirred. "Just a dream. You're safe."
As I tended to her, rage built in my chest like a living thing.
Scarlett Smith had done this. That parasitic woman had torn apart whatever fragile peace Elena had built from her shattered childhood.
Every person who'd ever made Elena feel small, worthless, abandoned—they would all pay.
---
Morning came too soon.
Elena woke disoriented, her injured hand throbbing. I was already awake, had been for hours, watching the sunrise paint our bedroom in shades of gold that did nothing to warm the cold determination that had settled in my bones overnight.
"How's the hand?" I asked as she sat up, blinking confusion away.
She looked at the bandage as if surprised to find it there. "I—yesterday really happened."
"Unfortunately."
I shifted closer, keeping my voice gentle despite the protective fury still burning in my chest. "Dr. Klein can come by this morning, if you'd like. To talk about... everything."
She was quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the edge of the bandage. When she finally looked up, her eyes held a weariness.
"Would that help?"
"I think it might." I reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she needed to. When she didn't, I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "He's very good at what he does. "
Elena nodded slowly. "Okay. Yes."
She rose carefully, movements still tentative, and I forced myself not to help unless asked. By the time she'd showered and dressed in comfortable clothes—soft cashmere that wouldn't irritate her bandages—Marcus was already showing Dr. Klein up to the master suite's sitting area.
"Good morning, Lady Elena. Lord Sebastian." Klein's professional demeanor was reassuring in its normalcy. "Shall we talk in private?"
I tensed immediately. "I should be present. As her husband—"
"Sebastian." Klein's voice remained calm but firm. "You know that's not how this works."
"I'll be in my study," I managed, the words feeling like razor blades. "If you need anything—"
"I'll be fine." She offered a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's just talking."
I left the room with measured steps, each one a small agony.