Chapter 145
Damon's POV
Mother pulled me to the couch, and I sat there with my head buried in my hands.
"You need to stay calm," she said softly, but there was something strained in her voice.
"I don't understand how Elena could..." I couldn't even finish the sentence.
"Elena and Caleb," she said carefully, "they must have been involved for a while now."
"No." I shook my head violently. "Elena isn't like that. She wouldn't..."
But my voice wasn't as certain as I wanted it to be, and Isabella's poison was already seeping in.
She told me everything that had happened that day, even spoke much ill of Elena and Caleb. But none of it could help me escape the reality that Elena had rejected me.
---
By morning, I hadn't slept at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Elena's face when she'd chosen him. When I tried to leave my room, two guards blocked my path.
"The Alpha's orders," the butler said coldly. "You need to cool down for a few days in your room."
I kicked the breakfast tray across the room, watched coffee and pastries scatter across the carpet. Then I started throwing things.
Hours later, when I sat in the wreckage staring at my phone, something had changed.
Elena had finally responded.
---
Elena's POV
I stared at my phone screen, watching my sent message with no reply. Just silence.
I exhaled slowly and slipped the phone into my pocket, forcing myself to leave it alone. The urge to keep checking, to see if he'd respond, was still there—muscle memory from years of waiting on his attention. But I pushed it down.
The manor was too quiet. I needed to move, to do something useful instead of sitting here drowning in my own thoughts.
I came to the study and through the half-open door saw him working intently. His eyes carried a trace of weariness.
I thought I could do this one small thing for him.
I found the coffee beans easily enough.
While the coffee brewed, I leaned against the counter, letting the rich aroma wrap around me. It smelled like him—dark, complex, with an edge of something sharp underneath. The comparison made heat crawl up my neck.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. You're making coffee, not writing poetry about the man.
When the coffee was ready, I poured it carefully into a cup and carried it toward his study.
I paused at the threshold. Knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Caleb sat at his desk, shoulders tense, fingers moving rapidly across his laptop keyboard. He'd shed his jacket at some point, rolled his sleeves to his elbows. The sunlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows caught the sharp line of his jaw, softening the harsh angles just slightly.
My gaze traced the strong column of his throat, his captivating appearance as he concentrated.
Jesus, Elena. Get a grip.
I forced myself to move forward, setting the mug down carefully on the edge of his desk, away from the laptop and papers. He didn't look up, still absorbed in whatever he was reading.
This close, I could smell that familiar scent of his, making my pulse quicken. Making me want to get closer.
I started to retreat, but my traitorous eyes wouldn't cooperate. They kept cataloging details.
Then, without any warning, I met his eyes: "Seen enough?"
I jerked back like I'd been scalded, heat flooding my face instantly. My ears felt like they were on fire.
"I wasn't—" The denial came out strangled. "I wasn't looking at you!"
His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach flip. One eyebrow raised slightly, and the corner of his mouth—was that a smile?
The expression was so fleeting.
"I was looking at your screen," I blurted, grasping at the excuse like a lifeline. "At the... at the work stuff."
"The work stuff." He repeated it slowly, still watching me with that unreadable expression.
"Yes. Very interesting work... things."
Oh my God, shut up, Elena.
His gaze held mine for another excruciating moment, and I swore I saw his mouth twitch again. Then he turned back to his laptop without comment, but I could feel the shift in the air between us—something electric and dangerous that made me want to both run away and move closer.
I retreated to the leather sofa on the opposite side of the room. My phone became an immediate focal point, something to stare at so I wouldn't look at him again.
Except I could still feel his presence like a physical weight.
My heartbeat refused to slow down.
Then my phone buzzed in my hand. The screen lit up with Damon's name, and my stomach dropped.
I looked up instinctively. Caleb's fingers had stilled on the keyboard, his shoulders slightly more rigid than before.
"I—" I cleared my throat. "I sent him a message earlier. About... about the engagement. That it was my idea, not yours."
Caleb didn't move.
"He's probably calling to ask about it," I continued, my voice smaller now. "I should answer. I can go outside if you—"
"Stay."
The single word cut through the air, quiet but absolute.
I froze with my phone still buzzing in my hand, staring at his back. He hadn't moved, hadn't looked at me, but I could see the tension in every line of his body.
Then, slowly, he pushed his chair back.
I watched, confused, as he walked toward me. His expression was unreadable.
He crossed the distance between us in three measured steps.
My breath caught as he reached down, and his hand found my waist. His grip was firm, decisive, and he pulled.
I gasped as I found myself suddenly yanked forward, my body colliding with his. My free hand shot out instinctively, grabbing at his shirt sleeve, crinkling the expensive fabric in my fist.
His other arm came around my lower back, steadying me, holding me against him.
"What—" I started, but the words died.
We were so close I could feel the heat radiating from him.
Caleb's jaw was tight, a muscle jumping near his temple. His eyes had definitely darkened now, pupils dilating as he gazed at me.
"Answer it here," he said, his voice rough and low. "Where I can hear."
It wasn't a request.
"Caleb," I whispered, not sure if I was protesting or pleading.
His arm tightened fractionally around my waist. His other hand was still on my hip, thumb pressing just above the bone in a way that made it hard to think straight.
"Answer it," he repeated.
I chose to answer the call.