Chapter 146
Elena's POV
I pressed the answer button. "Hello?"
"What did that message mean?" Damon's voice cut through the line, sharp as broken glass. "You said getting engaged to him was your idea. What the hell are you talking about?"
My throat went tight. I could feel Caleb's chin almost resting on my shoulder, his entire body a wall of heat and tension behind me. He didn't move, didn't speak, but his presence was suffocating in the best and worst way.
"It means exactly what it says," I said firmly, no longer hesitating. "This is my choice."
"Bullshit." Damon's breath crackled through the speaker. "You don't choose anything, Elena. You just get pushed around until someone makes the decision for you."
The words landed like a slap. My free hand curled into a fist against my thigh.
"Where the hell are you?" he demanded. "I went to your house last night—you weren't there. I tried to ask Father where you'd gone, and he just slapped me. Now I'm basically under house arrest. I can't leave to find you."
Something in my chest loosened, just slightly. He was locked up. That's why he hadn't come looking for Caleb.
Damon's voice dropped to something almost fragile. "After everything that happened at the ceremony—Elena, talk to me. Are you really with that bastard—"
"Don't call him that." The words came out harder than I'd intended, sharp enough to cut through whatever he'd been about to say.
Damon went silent for two beats. Then: "Are you doing this just to piss me off?"
My heart kicked into overdrive, terrified Caleb would think I only defended him to provoke Damon, not because it mattered to me.
"He's my fiancé." I forced the words out, each one feeling heavier than the last. "That's what you need to understand."
Behind me, Caleb's fingers stilled. His whole body seemed to lock up, and I couldn't tell if it was anger or something else.
"You're out of your mind," Damon snapped. "This is insane. You're—Christ, you're not thinking straight. You're upset about what happened with Scarlett, I get that, but throwing yourself at him isn't the answer—"
"I chose him," I interrupted, my voice shaking now. "Not because I'm mad at you. Not because—"
The words died in my throat. What was I supposed to say? Not because I want to hurt you? Not because it's revenge? Every explanation felt like a trap, and with Caleb right there, listening to every syllable, I couldn't afford to sound uncertain.
"Not because of what?" Damon pressed. "Elena, you're not making any sense. What could there possibly be between you two? Have you forgotten what you did to him?"
My stomach dropped.
"Remember elementary school? When a bunch of us cornered him in the library? You were right there, Elena."
My blood went cold. The painful memory slammed into me. It was a weight I could never put down.
Caleb's arm around my waist turned rigid, every muscle tensing against my back. But he didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned in closer, his chin pressing against my shoulder, as if to say I know. I remember. But I'm still here.
"That's enough." I barely recognized my own voice. "That's—you don't get to—"
"You did that to him," Damon continued, relentless. "So what is this? Guilt? You think you owe him something, so now you're playing house?"
"Stop it." My hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles ached. "You're an outsider now. You have no right to interfere."
The line went dead silent. I could hear him breathing, harsh and uneven.
"Outsider," he repeated slowly, like he was testing the word. "That's what I am to you now?"
"Yes." The word scraped out of me, raw and painful, but I forced myself to say it. "That's exactly what you are."
Caleb's hand moved then, a slow slide up from my hip to rest just beneath my ribs. The pressure was light but unmistakable.
"Listen to me," Damon said, and for the first time since the call started, he sounded genuinely desperate. "I know I fucked up. I know leaving you at the ceremony was—it was the worst thing I could've done. But Scarlett was going to jump, Elena. She was standing on the edge of a building, and I was panicking. My mind was a mess. I didn't want a death on my hands. I had no choice."
Something twisted in my chest. Scarlett's face flashed through my mind—her wide, desperate eyes, the way she'd clung to Damon's arm like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
But before I could spiral into that thought, Caleb's hand moved again. His palm pressed flat against my ribs, and I felt the heat of it through the knit fabric, searing and grounding all at once. My breath caught.
He pulled my focus back, reminding me it was time to end this, to stay with him instead of getting lost in Damon's excuses.
"I'm hanging up," I said, my voice steadier now.
"Wait—" Damon's voice cracked. "Elena, please. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I was wrong, okay? Can you forgive me? Just—one more time. That's all I'm asking."
The words hung in the air between us, and I realized with a sharp, painful clarity that this was the first time I'd ever heard him sound truly desperate. The first time he'd ever begged.
But it was too late.
My finger hovered over the screen, then pressed down. The call ended with a soft click.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
---
Damon's POV
The line went dead, and I stared at my phone like it had just betrayed me.
She'd actually hung up on me.
I tried calling back. It went straight to voicemail.
My chest felt too tight, like something was crushing my ribs from the inside. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
She'd been part of my life for as long as I could remember. She was supposed to be there. She was supposed to stay.
But she wasn't mine anymore.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, and I doubled over, pressing my palms against my knees.
I thought about the way she used to smile at me when we were kids. The way she'd always been there when I needed her, quiet and steady and safe.
And I'd thrown it all away.
I looked around my room, at the wreckage I'd made earlier. Broken glass, scattered papers, the picture frame I'd thrown against the wall—a photograph. One I'd forgotten I even had.
Me and Elena, fifteen years old, standing on a beach during some summer camp. She was squinting against the sun, wearing that smile she used to have back then. I had my arm slung over her shoulders, grinning like I owned the world.
I stared at the image until my vision blurred.
This was supposed to be mine. She was supposed to be mine.
And he'd taken her.