Chapter 65
Elara
Julian was silent for a long moment. Then, finally: "Did you really think I'd let him touch you?"
"Yes." I stared at him, at his too-calm face and cold eyes. "Yes, I thought exactly that. Because that's what you said."
"I was teaching you a lesson."
"A lesson?" Anger surged through the fog in my head, sharp and clarifying. I pushed myself upright, ignoring how the room tilted. "You call this a lesson? Getting me drunk? Stripping me in front of strangers? Letting that animal drag me in here and—"
"I stopped him," Julian interrupted flatly.
"After!" My voice cracked into something close to a scream. "You stopped him after he—after he—"
I couldn't say it. Couldn't admit what had almost happened. What I'd been sure was about to happen when he touched me, when he tore my clothes, when his hands—
"You did this." I was shaking now, my whole body trembling so hard my teeth chattered. "This was all you. The club, the drinks, Marcus—all of it. You wanted to scare me. You wanted to—to—"
"I wanted you to understand," Julian said, and his voice was still so calm, so controlled, like we were discussing the weather instead of my near-assault. "That there are consequences for your actions."
"Consequences." I laughed—a harsh, broken sound. "Right. Because I dared to leave. Because I stopped following you around like a lovesick puppy. Because I moved out."
"Because you've been causing chaos since the day Sloane came back." He moved then, finally, pushing off the door to walk toward me. "The scene at Blackwood. The incident at school. The hearing. Tristan's party. Every single time, you find a way to make a scene. To drag our family name through the mud."
I stared at him. At this man I'd loved so desperately, so completely, that I'd destroyed myself for him in my past life. Who'd I once thought hung the moon and stars.
And I said: "So you brought me here to punish me. Like a dog that needs to be beaten into submission."
His eyes flashed. "Don't be dramatic."
"Dramatic?" I pushed off the bed, stood on legs that shook but held. Crossed the space between us until we were inches apart. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—expensive and familiar and wrong. "You got me drunk. You let strangers strip me. You gave your friend permission to—to—"
My voice broke. I couldn't say it again.
Julian's jaw clenched. "He wasn't going to—"
"Yes, he was!" The words exploded out of me. "He was! And you knew it! You wanted me scared enough to—to what? To come crawling back to Blackwood? To sign whatever papers you want? To disappear?"
"I wanted—" He stopped. Took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher. "I wanted you to stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop disrupting everything." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Stop making me—"
He cut himself off. But I saw it—the crack in his perfect composure. The flash of something real beneath all that ice.
"Making you what?" I pushed, reckless now with anger and alcohol and desperation. "Making you acknowledge me? Making you see me? Making you admit that maybe, just maybe, I'm not some thing you can control?"
"You are!" The words burst out of him, sharp and furious. His hand shot out, grabbed my wrist—not gentle, but not cruel either. Just... desperate. "That's exactly what you are. You came into my life—my home—and turned everything upside down. You followed me everywhere. You looked at me with those eyes like I was—like I—"
He stopped. Breathed hard.
"And then you left," he continued, voice dropping to something almost dangerous. "You just... stopped. Moved out. Started calling me Mr. Vane like I'm a stranger. Like the past three years never happened. Like you have the right to just walk away from the Vane family whenever you feel like it."
I yanked my wrist free. "I do have that right. I'm not your property."
"Aren't you?" He stepped closer, backing me against the bed. "Your father worked for us. Your mother works for us. We took you in. Fed you. Clothed you. Paid for your education. Everything you are, everything you have—it's because of my family."
"And you never let me forget it."
His eyes narrowed. "That's not—"
"It is!" I shoved at his chest. It was like pushing a wall. "Every single day, you and Victoria and Tristan remind me that I don't belong. That I'm just the help's daughter playing dress-up. That I should be grateful."
"You should be."
"For what?" My voice cracked. "For being bullied? For being blamed every time something goes wrong? For being told I'm not good enough? For being brought to places like this and—and—"
The tears came then. Hot and bitter and unstoppable. I hated them. Hated the weakness they showed. But I couldn't stop.
Julian's expression shifted. Something flickered across his face—confusion, maybe, or the ghost of guilt.
"Elara—"
"Don't." I wiped at my face with shaking hands. "Just... don't. You've made your point. I'm small. I'm nothing. I'm easily controlled. Congratulations. You win."
For a long moment, he just looked at me. His face unreadable.
Then, quietly: "This isn't about winning."
"Then what is it about?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out—slowly, giving me time to pull away—and caught my chin, tilting my face up to meet his eyes.
"You said you loved me," he said, and his voice was strange now. Rough. Almost... uncertain. "In your room that night. You said you'd loved me for three years."
My heart stuttered. "That was a mistake."
"Was it?"
"Yes." I tried to pull away. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm. "I was confused. I was young and stupid and I mistook... I don't know. Gratitude. Safety. Whatever it was, it wasn't love. It couldn't have been."
"Why not?"
"Because you never—" I stopped. Took a shuddering breath. "Because it was all in my head. You never saw me that way. You never will."
His thumb brushed across my lower lip. I froze.
"Are you sure about that?" he murmured.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. His hand threaded through my hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth claimed mine with something that felt like anger and desperation tangled together.
I tried to push him away. I did. My hands went to his chest, pressed against solid muscle and thundering heartbeat, and I pushed.
But he was stronger. He'd always been stronger.
His other hand found my waist, pulled me closer, and the kiss deepened—demanding, consuming, erasing every coherent thought from my alcohol-soaked brain.
And God help me, for just a moment—just one terrible, traitorous moment—I stopped fighting.
My hands stopped pushing and started clinging. My mouth opened under his. My body melted against him like I'd done this a thousand times before, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like I was still that girl who'd loved him so desperately she'd destroyed herself for him.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, and his eyes—his eyes were different now. Darker. Desperate in a way I'd never seen.
"You've ruined me," he said, and his voice broke on the words. "Do you understand that? You've completely destroyed any semblance of control I had. I can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop wanting—"
He cut himself off. Closed his eyes.
"This is wrong," he said. "You're—we can't—"
But he didn't let go. If anything, his grip on me tightened.
"Julian," I whispered. The room was still spinning, but now it was for a different reason. "You don't want me. You want Sloane. You've always wanted—"
"Shut up." He kissed me again, harder this time. Angrier. "Just... shut up."
And I did.
Because what else could I do? I was drunk. I was exhausted. I was terrified and furious and so, so tired of fighting.