Chapter 41 Deep blue
Elena stepped out of the penthouse elevator just as the soft chime announced her arrival.
The air on this floor always felt different—quiet, controlled, heavy with the kind of luxury that demanded composure. Before she could take more than two steps, a maid approached her, head bowed respectfully, and reached for her bag.
“Where is Jaxon?” Elena asked, her tone calm but edged with something restless she could not quite suppress.
“He’s in the study, ma,” the maid replied softly.
Elena nodded and released the bag into the maid’s hands. Her heels echoed faintly against the marble floor as she made her way down the corridor. With every step, her thoughts tangled tighter—her parents’ words, Richard’s certainty, Vivienne’s hopeful smile, and the way the word wedding had suddenly begun to sound less like an agreement and more like a sentence.
She stopped in front of the study door.
For a moment, she didn’t move.
She stared at the polished wood, inhaled deeply, and let the breath sit in her chest as if she were bracing herself for impact. Then, gently, she pushed the door open.
Jaxon was seated behind his desk, a book in his hands—April, the one his father had commented on during his last visit. He looked up the instant she entered, his movements slowing as though time itself had adjusted to her presence. He closed the book carefully and set it aside before leaning back in his chair.
“I take it you’ve heard,” he said quietly.
“The wedding?” Elena asked, stepping farther into the room. “Yes.”
She moved closer, her posture composed, her expression unreadable. “I told my father I would speak to you first,” she added. “Not because you mean anything to me—but because that was the agreement.”
“That’s fair,” Jaxon replied, rising slowly to his feet. “But I can’t help feeling like we might be moving too fast.”
Elena tilted her head slightly, studying him. “I keep to my word,” she said evenly. “And I still stand by the contract.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
But this time, he didn’t stop there.
Jaxon stepped closer.
The space between them narrowed until Elena could feel the warmth of him, could sense the quiet intensity radiating from his presence. His voice dropped, softer now, almost dangerous in its restraint.
“But I’m starting to forget that this is all just a truce.”
His breath brushed against her skin, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. His deep blue eyes held hers, unguarded in a way she had never seen before—too honest, too close.
“I don’t know how long I can keep pretending,” he whispered near her ear.
Elena closed her eyes for a brief moment, forcing herself to breathe, forcing the unfamiliar tension back into its cage. When she opened them again, her expression had hardened into something controlled and distant.
“You never told me why you agreed to the alliance,” she said, stepping back deliberately. “Not really.”
The spell shattered.
Jaxon pulled away as if waking from a trance.
He turned back to his desk, busied himself with rearranging books and papers that needed no rearranging at all.
“Our parents are right,” he said, his tone suddenly businesslike. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”
Elena blinked, the words landing heavier than she expected.
“Oh,” she said softly. Then, with forced composure, “Fine. That’s right.”
She turned without waiting for a response, opened the door, and walked out.
Dinner that evening felt like a performance with no audience.
They sat at opposite ends of the long dining table, the soft clink of cutlery the only sound that broke the silence. The room felt empty despite the staff moving quietly around them. No conversation. No accidental glances. Just two people occupying the same space while miles apart.
Elena ate mechanically, tasting nothing. Jaxon barely touched his food.
When the meal ended, they rose without a word and retired to their separate rooms—
Elena lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling as though it might offer answers it had no intention of giving. The room was dark, but her mind was loud—too loud. Jaxon’s words replayed relentlessly in her head, each one sharper than the last.
I don’t know how long I can continue to play by the rules.
She could hear his voice clearly, low and restrained, could almost feel the warmth of his breath again as it had brushed against her skin. His scent—clean, faintly woody, unmistakably him—lingered in her memory far longer than it should have. And his eyes… there had been something in them she hadn’t expected. Something dangerously close to honesty.
She had never felt this way before.
Not confused. Not shaken. Not aware of another person in a way that unsettled her sense of control.
With a frustrated sigh, she turned onto her side and squeezed the duvet tightly, as though it might anchor her back to reality. Her heart was beating faster than it had any right to. This was not part of the arrangement. This was not part of the contract.
Get a grip, she scolded herself silently.
She reached for her headphones on the bedside table, placed them over her ears, and turned the volume up just enough to drown out her thoughts. Soft music filled her ears, but even that struggled to compete with the chaos in her mind.
“Go to sleep, Elena,” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. “Just go to sleep.”
Eventually, exhaustion crept in where discipline had failed, and her eyes fluttered shut.
—
Across the penthouse, Jaxon was fighting a battle of his own.
He tossed violently on the bed, the sheets twisted tightly around his legs as sweat soaked through his shirt. His breathing was uneven, shallow, as though the air itself had become too heavy to inhale. His brows were drawn together in anguish, lips trembling as muffled sounds escaped his throat.
The dream had him firmly in its grip.
He was young again—too young.
The room was smaller, colder. The walls were unfamiliar yet painfully known. His father’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
“He is not my son. And he never will be.”
The man standing across the room looked like Richard Wentworth, yet younger, sharper, his anger raw and unrestrained. His eyes burned with fury as they fixed on the woman standing before him.
Little Jaxon stood frozen by the door.
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He had only wanted to find his mother. But now his small hands trembled at his sides as he listened, fear rooting him to the spot.
His father’s words continued, cruel and merciless, accusing, condemning.
His mother sobbed, her shoulders shaking as she pleaded, her voice breaking with every word.
“Richard, I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” she begged. “Please—”
“Don’t you ever say my name,” his father thundered. “You cheated and made me believe this bastard was my own!”
Little Jaxon’s chest tightened painfully. Tears welled up in his eyes as he took a hesitant step into the room.
“M—Mom… Dad…” he whispered, his voice small, frightened.
His mother turned instantly, panic flashing across her face. She rushed to him and knelt, pulling him into her arms and covering his ears tightly with her hands.
“You don’t have to hear this,” she whispered desperately. “You don’t have to hear any of this.”
But it was too late.
The words had already sunk in.
Little Jaxon began to cry, his small body shaking as confusion and fear overwhelmed him. His mother held him tighter, rocking him as she sobbed along with him.
“Don’t worry, my love,” she whispered shakily. “Everything is fine. Everything is fine.”
But his father’s voice cut through again, colder now, more vicious.
“You will never be a Wentworth,” he said, his gaze locking onto the boy. “You’re nothing but a bastard.”
The word echoed, loud and cruel.
Then everything happened too fast.
His father raised his hand, striking his mother. She cried out, stumbling back. Little Jaxon screamed, his cry piercing and desperate.
“Mother!”
The world shattered.
—
Jaxon jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his scream tearing from his throat as he shot upright in bed. His heart slammed violently against his ribs, his chest heaving as though he had run miles. The sheets were tangled around him, damp with sweat, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles ached.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.
Then reality slowly crept back in—the dim lighting, the familiar walls, the quiet hum of the penthouse at night.
His breathing remained ragged as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the glass jug on the bedside table. His hands shook slightly as he poured water into a glass and gulped it down in hurried mouthfuls, some spilling down his chin.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
The past had found him again.
It always did.
He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening as memories he had spent years burying clawed their way back to the surface. No matter how far he climbed, no matter how powerful he became, there were wounds that refused to heal.
Slowly, he straightened.
In the quiet of the night, with his heart still racing and his thoughts spiraling, one truth pressed heavily against his chest—
His past was beginning to haunt him.