Chapter 126 Second Chances and First Calls
Elena: POV
I stared into Julian's eyes, feeling his thumb brush against my temple with maddening gentleness. The same hands that had forced me against a bathroom mirror last night. The same man who had thrown himself in front of a bullet meant for me this afternoon.
Can you really do it?
The question hung between us like a blade. Behind me, I could hear my mother's labored breathing, could feel the weight of her expectant silence. Julian's other hand remained possessively curved around my hip, holding me in place while he waited for my answer. I noticed the slight tremor in his grip—the way his fingers tightened involuntarily as pain shot through his wounded shoulder.
He nearly died for you today.
That thought had been circling my mind like a vulture since the rooftop. No matter how hard I tried to dismiss it, to catalog all the ways he'd hurt me, I kept seeing that moment when the gun swung toward me.
The way he'd moved without thinking. The way he'd looked at me as blood pooled beneath him, more concerned about my safety than his own wounds.
"Elena?" My mother's weak voice cut through my spiral. "Sweetheart?"
I looked over Julian's shoulder at her—really looked. The way her cheekbones jutted out sharp and hollow beneath translucent skin.
How the hospital gown hung loose on her shrinking frame. The yellow tinge around her eyes that spoke of failing organs and borrowed time.
Another bleed could kill her.
His words echoed in my mind like a death sentence. If I took her back to Florida now, refused his medical team, denied her the care that could buy us more time together...
You'll never forgive yourself.
"I..." My voice cracked. Julian's grip tightened slightly, not threatening but anchoring, like he was trying to hold me together before I shattered completely. The movement made him wince almost imperceptibly—a flash of white-hot pain crossing his features before he forced his expression back to controlled determination.
Three years of pain. But thirty seconds of him taking a bullet.
I closed my eyes, feeling the room spin around me. When I opened them again, I met his gaze directly.
"I want to try," I whispered. "One more time. I want to... trust you again."
The words felt like glass in my throat. Like I was betraying every survival instinct that screamed at me to run. But somewhere underneath all the fear and anger, a tiny voice whispered: He bled for you. Maybe that means something.
Julian's entire body went still. "Elena—"
"But there have to be rules," I rushed on before I could lose my nerve. "Boundaries. If I do this—if I give you another chance—things have to be different."
His nod was immediate, desperate. "Anything. Name it."
"No more Victoria." The words came out harder than I intended. "I don't care if she calls crying. I don't care if she claims to be dying. She doesn't exist in our lives anymore."
"Done."
"And you have to tell me things. No more making decisions about us without me." I thought of our lost baby, the ultrasound photos he'd hidden, the way he'd suggested termination. "We're partners, or we're nothing."
"Partners," he agreed, his voice rough with emotion.
From the hospital bed, my mother made a soft sound—half sob, half sigh. When I turned to look at her, tears were streaming down her hollow cheeks.
"Are you disappointed in me?" I asked, hating how young and uncertain my voice sounded.
She shook her head slowly. "Baby girl, I've watched you love that boy for sixteen years. If you think there's still something worth saving between you..." She reached out with a trembling hand to touch my face. "Then I trust your judgment."
Her fingers were so cold against my cheek.
"But if he hurts you again," she added, her voice gaining surprising strength, "I will find a way to destroy him myself. Cancer or no cancer."
Despite everything, I almost smiled at that. My dying mother, threatening a billionaire from her hospital bed.
"I won't hurt her again," Julian said quietly, his eyes never leaving mine. "I swear it on my life."
"Your life isn't worth much if you break that promise," my mother replied with ice-cold precision.
Julian actually flinched.
I took a shaky breath. "Okay. We'll try."
The words hung in the air between us like a bridge I wasn't sure would hold my weight.
Julian's arm tightened around me, and I felt him suppress a sharp intake of breath as the movement pulled at his bandaged wounds. His jaw clenched briefly—whether from pain or emotion, I couldn't tell—but his hold on me never wavered. For the first time in months, it didn't feel like a cage. It felt like shelter.
Please don't make me regret this.
---
Catherine: POV
Death, as it turned out, was surprisingly easy to fake when you had the right connections.
I sat in the dingy motel room in Newark, staring at the newspaper clipping spread across the stained bedspread: Vanderbilt Heiress Dies in Custody - Apparent Suicide by Overdose.
The photo they'd used was from my debutante ball five years ago, all innocent smiles and pearls. The article detailed how Catherine Vanderbilt, distraught over criminal charges and her family's financial ruin, had managed to obtain prescription pills and ended her life in her cell at 3:47 AM.
Perfect.
The call from Julian's lawyer had come this morning, just hours after he made his decision. The plan was in motion. Julian's people were surprisingly efficient once I'd laid out exactly what Victoria had done.
A few strategic conversations with the right prison officials, a medical examiner who owed Sterling Conglomerate several favors, and suddenly Catherine Vanderbilt was officially deceased.
The body in the morgue belonged to a Jane Doe who'd died of an overdose the same night—similar height, similar build, similar enough age that a cursory examination wouldn't raise questions.
My family's lawyer had already arranged a private cremation "per the family's wishes." No open casket. No viewing. Just ashes and a death certificate.
Meanwhile, I walked out of a service entrance wearing a guard's uniform, with a new passport in my purse and a very specific plan for revenge.
The disposable phones were lined up on the nightstand like soldiers. Seven of them, purchased with cash from different convenience stores across three states. Each one registered to a different fake identity, each one completely untraceable.
I picked up the first phone and dialed Victoria's private number—the one she only gave to her inner circle.
She answered on the third ring, her voice cautious. "Hello?"
I said nothing. Just let the silence stretch, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Hello? Who is this?"
I could hear the edge of irritation creeping into her tone. Good. Let her feel off-balance.
After thirty seconds, I hung up.
The second call came an hour later, from a different phone.
This time, when she answered, I played a recording I'd prepared: the sound of a music box playing Chopin's Funeral March, tinny and distorted, before cutting off abruptly.
"What the hell—"
Click.
The third call was at 2 AM. I knew she'd be asleep, knew the sudden ring would jolt her awake with her heart pounding.
"Stop calling me," she hissed into the phone.
I let out a low, breathy laugh—nothing that could be identified as my voice, just an unsettling sound in the darkness.
"I'm calling the police—"
"Go ahead," I whispered, my voice so distorted through the voice modulator that it sounded like something from a nightmare. "Tell them a dead woman is calling you."
I heard her sharp intake of breath.
"That's right, Victoria. I know you saw the news. I know you think you're safe now that Catherine Vanderbilt is gone." I paused, letting the words sink in. "But you should know better than anyone... the dead don't always stay buried."
"This isn't funny—"
"Does it sound like I'm laughing?"
The line went dead. She'd hung up on me.
But I could picture her now, sitting in her expensive penthouse, staring at her phone with shaking hands. Wondering if she was losing her mind. Wondering if guilt was finally catching up with her.
Good.