Chapter 171
Caleb's POV
Marcus's reason for summoning me was simple—the industrial automation project in the North District. He needed me to handle the negotiations.
I returned to my office to continue my work. Time passed quickly, and before I knew it, it was past eight in the evening. The floor was empty, most of the lights already dimmed.
I sat at my desk, staring at my phone. Elena's name was at the top of my recent calls, but I couldn't bring myself to dial.
"She came to see me a few days ago," Damon had said. "She told me herself she'd thought about marrying me."
I picked up my phone, then set it down again.
Did she tell you about that?
The question lodged like a blade between my ribs. And the worst part was—I didn't know. She hadn't mentioned seeing Damon. Not a word.
Why?
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the bottle of whiskey I kept there. Poured two fingers into a glass and downed it in one swallow. The burn did nothing to quiet the voice in my head.
"She seems to pity you. She said I used to treat you badly."
My hand tightened around the glass.
"She's just too kind. The type who'd feed every stray dog she passes on the street."
I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Elena's face. The way she looked at me sometimes—soft, careful. Like I was something fragile that might break.
"If she's occasionally nice to you, it's only out of sympathy and pity. Don't you dare misunderstand."
I poured another drink. Then another. When Elena's message came through, the bottle was half-empty.
When are you coming home
I stared at the message for a long time but didn't reply.
Two more vibrations.
I set the phone face-down on the desk and reached for the bottle again.
I should ask her about it directly.
But what if Damon was right? What if I asked and saw the truth in her eyes—that everything between us was just her trying to make up for the past? That she was with me out of guilt, not love?
I couldn't bear it. Not yet.
The door opened. Hector appeared in the doorway.
"Why are you still here?" His voice was resigned. "You were the one pushing to come back early. I thought you were eager to see Elena."
"Still have work."
"This doesn't look like work," he said, glancing at the glass.
"Whatever Damon said, go home. If there's a misunderstanding, clear it up." He continued.
He was right. Drinking here wouldn't solve anything.
I grabbed my coat and left with him.
By the time I reached my manor, it was past nine.
---
Elena's POV
I heard the key turning in the lock.
I jumped up from the couch, my heart pounding in my chest. He was home.
"You're back!" The words burst out of me, and I instinctively started to move toward him.
Caleb just gave a flat "Mm," not even looking at me. He took off his coat, his movements mechanical and distant.
The temperature in the living room seemed to drop several degrees.
I stood there, at a loss. This wasn't right. This was completely wrong. Yesterday on the phone he'd been fine, even said he'd rush back from Aetheria today. Now how—
"I'll get your slippers." I hurried to the entrance, taking his slippers from the shoe cabinet. "I sent you messages. You didn't reply."
"Mm, didn't notice." His tone was colder than usual, like he was dealing with a stranger.
My fingers tightened, nails nearly digging into my palms. What happened?
He took the slippers, changed into them, then walked straight toward the living room. I followed behind him, trying to read something from his back. But his shoulders were tense, his entire being radiating a "don't come near me" aura.
Is he angry?
Did I do something wrong?
My mind raced through every message, every call from today. But I couldn't think of anything that might have upset him.
"You..." I began carefully, "you haven't eaten yet, have you?"
He stopped by the couch and finally turned to look at me. But that look—cold, distant, like he was looking at someone not quite familiar.
"You haven't eaten?" His voice held no emotion.
"I ate already," I said, my voice unconsciously carrying a hint of grievance. "This was made especially for you."
I pointed toward the dining table. The pasta sat there, completely cold now. The candles had long since burned out, leaving pools of hardened wax.
This was what I'd spent two hours making. To surprise him. To celebrate his competition victory.
But now it just looked pathetic.
Caleb's gaze swept over the dining table, then moved to me.
I instinctively covered my left hand with my right.
Caleb's eyes sharpened. His keen sense of smell had detected something.
"Let me see," he said, his voice suddenly tense.
I hesitated, then slowly extended my left hand.
There were several fresh cuts on my fingers, and a slight burn mark. All from learning to cook these past few days.
I watched as Caleb's gaze locked onto the Band-Aid wrapped around my index finger. The atmosphere between us suddenly shifted, growing heavy. His eyes sharpened with an intensity that made me hold my breath.
Before I could react, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Not gently. He pulled my hand closer to examine it carefully.
"Caleb, I—"
"What happened?" His voice was low, controlled, but I heard the edge beneath it.
I tried to pull my hand back, but he held it tight. "It's nothing. I was learning to cook, and then—"
"Learning to cook." He repeated the words slowly, as if tasting them on his tongue. His gaze moved from my bandaged finger to the kitchen counter, where I'd left the cutting board and knife. And the unwashed dishes. Evidence of my clumsy attempts.
Heat crept up my neck. "I wanted to make you dinner. To celebrate your win." The words came out smaller than I'd intended. "I'm not very good at it yet."
His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he just stared at my hand, his thumb hovering dangerously close to the edge of the bandage. Then he lifted his gaze to meet mine.
"You hurt yourself." It wasn't a question. It was an accusation, though I couldn't tell if he was accusing me or himself.
"It's just a small cut. It doesn't even hurt anymore." I forced a smile, trying to ease the tension. "You should go rest. You must be exhausted today."
But he wasn't listening. His attention had shifted to the table, to the plate of pasta that had long since gone cold.