Chapter 42
Elena's POV
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
I glanced toward the office. Caleb didn't emerge—he must've been deep in the call.
Hesitating, I stood and walked to the door.
A uniformed attendant stood outside, pushing a silver cart loaded with covered dishes.
I blinked. "I didn't order anything."
"This is a delivery arranged by Mr. Vance, ma'am."
He wheeled the cart inside and began setting out the dishes on the dining table. Blueberry tart. Macarons. Tiramisu. A steaming cup of milk tea and a glass of iced Americano.
My favorites.
Every single one.
I stood there, staring at the spread.
When the attendant left, I slowly pulled off my mask.
No one was watching anyway.
I picked up a macaron and took a small bite. The sweetness melted on my tongue, soft and comforting.
For a moment, I just let myself feel it.
I grabbed the iced Americano and a small plate of pastries, then walked toward the office.
The door was still cracked open. Through the gap, I could see Caleb sitting at his desk, wearing thin gold-rimmed glasses I'd never seen before. His fingers flew across the keyboard, his profile sharp and focused in the pale light from the monitor.
My heart did something stupid.
I knocked lightly.
He looked up, pulling off the glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "What's wrong?"
"Brought you coffee," I said, stepping inside and setting the glass on the corner of his desk.
His gaze dropped to the plate in my other hand. "The rest is for you."
"I know. But I can't finish it all." I hesitated. "Want to share?"
"I don't eat sweets." He gestured toward the leather couch by the window. "You can sit there and eat."
I sank onto the couch, curling up with the plate balanced on my knees. Caleb turned back to his screen, the soft clicking of keys filling the silence.
It felt… easy. Natural.
Like we'd done this a hundred times before.
---
After a while, he closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair, watching me.
"You know," he said, voice dry, "you said your eyes were swollen. I didn't believe you before. Now I do."
I glared at him. "You're making fun of me."
"Just stating facts."
I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my chest. "You're an asshole."
"So I've been told." He stood, crossing the room to sit on the opposite end of the couch. "So. You going to tell me why you were crying?"
I looked away. "Does it matter?"
"Not really." He stretched his arm along the back of the couch, casual but watchful. "I'm not that interested in whatever's going on between you and Damon."
I didn't know if that was supposed to sting or not.
"Lila and Ethan are joining the team," he said, shifting topics smoothly. "They confirmed this morning."
"I know. Lila told me."
His gaze sharpened. "And you?"
I froze.
The question hung between us, sharp and unavoidable. Caleb sat there, completely still, watching me with those inscrutable amber eyes.
I should've had an answer ready. Something smooth, diplomatic. But my mind went blank.
What do I want?
The real answer was too complicated. Too messy. I wanted to say yes—to seize this chance to work with him, to be part of something real and exciting instead of continuing to suffocate. But saying yes meant defying Damon. Defying my parents. Breaking the careful distance I'd been trying to maintain.
Caleb's expression shifted. Just slightly. The warmth in his eyes cooled, like a door closing.
"I understand," he said quietly.
His voice was back to that flat, professional tone. The one that made me feel like a stranger.
"Wait—" I straightened up. "It's not—I'm not choosing Damon's side."
He raised one eyebrow. Skeptical.
"I just need time to think about it," I rushed on. "This is... it's a big decision. My family expects me to—" I stopped, hating how weak that sounded. "I need to figure out what kind of future I want."
Caleb leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms. "February," he said. "I need to finalize the initial team by then. I can't wait indefinitely."
The words landed like stones. Cold. Final.
I opened my mouth to argue, to beg for more time, but something in his expression stopped me.
"You should start looking for other people," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "Don't wait for me."
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at me with that infuriatingly calm expression.
But I could feel the shift. The distance opening up between us again.
My chest felt hollow. And weirdly, frustratingly deflated.
Caleb pulled out his phone.
I blinked. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for other people." He scrolled through his contacts with quick, efficient swipes. "Like you said."
My stomach twisted.
This shouldn't have stung. This was what I'd told him to do. But somehow, hearing him talk to someone he might choose over me—made my throat tighten.
I stood abruptly, needing to move. To do something other than just sit there.
I wandered toward his bookshelves, pretending to be fascinated by the rows of technical manuals and economics textbooks. My fingers traced the spines without really seeing them.
I turned the corner of the bookshelf and stopped.
There was a door. Glass-paneled, set into the wall like a secret.
I pulled it open.
A wine cabinet. Small, but meticulously organized. Rows of bottles gleamed under soft lighting—deep reds, pale golds, crystal-clear spirits. Some had faded with age.
I heard Caleb's footsteps behind me.
"Find something interesting?" His voice was dry.
I turned. He was sliding his phone back into his pocket, his expression unreadable.
"You have a wine cabinet," I said stupidly.
"I have a lot of things." He stepped past me, scanning the shelves with a practiced eye. Then he reached for a bottle—deep red glass, the label elegant and unfamiliar.
He pulled it down and grabbed two glasses from a hidden shelf.
"Come on."