Chapter 79
Elena's POV
When I woke again, the room was pitch black. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, squinting against the harsh light when the screen lit up.
Two messages from Caleb, sent at 21:17:
Did you take your medicine? Are you running a fever again?
Don't stop randomly. You need to take cold medicine for at least three days straight.
I stared at the screen for several seconds. In all this chaos, I'd forgotten someone still cared whether I was taking care of myself.
I sat up slowly, my fingers hovering over the keyboard for a long time before finally typing:
Just woke up. The fever's down a bit.
How did you know I was sick?
His reply came almost instantly, as if he'd been waiting:
I sensed it.
Despite the chill still in my bones, warmth flooded through my chest. I pulled the blanket tighter around myself.
Do you remember that winter when you gave me fever medicine?
My heart clenched. Of course I remembered. How could I forget?
I'd found him staggering on the road, finally collapsing by a tree. When I checked on him, he was burning with fever, his lips blue from the cold. I brought him to our storage shed, forced medicine down his throat while he was too weak to resist. Then Damon called, and I... I just left him there. Again. Alone.
I remember, I typed slowly. I'm sorry.
For what?
For making you leave before your fever broke.
His reply came quick and simple—heartbreakingly simple:
I'm used to it.
Those four words cut into my chest like a knife.
I gripped the phone tighter, typing through blurred vision: No next time. If you ever get sick again—if you're hurt—you have to tell me. I'll be there. I promise.
A long pause. Then he replied:
Okay.
That single word hung on my screen, carrying more weight than I was prepared to unpack.
I wiped my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but another message appeared:
What happened today?
I stared at the question as all the suppressed humiliation and pain came flooding back. My fingers moved almost without conscious thought:
Grandpa Randy announced in front of everyone that the engagement must happen within the month.
My hands trembled as I typed the next part: After we left Randy's hospital room, Damon refused to marry me in front of both our parents.
I paused, then added the most painful part:
My father didn't say a single word in my defense.
He only cares about keeping the contract intact. He doesn't care that Damon rejected me in front of everyone.
I feel like... like I'm just a tool to them.
This time the reply took longer. When it came, it was longer than his usual messages:
I used to think that way a lot as a kid. That something was fundamentally wrong with me. My own parents didn't want me. Everyone said I was defective.
My chest tightened reading his words. Then another message came:
But someone once told me that someday, I'd find people who cared about me. That if I just held on, things would get better.
The words sounded familiar yet distant, like echoes from childhood I couldn't quite capture.
She told me to wait.
Then another message arrived:
I chose to believe her.
I didn't remember saying those exact words, but something deep in my chest recognized them. Had I really given him hope in his darkest moments? Had my clumsy childhood comfort really meant that much?
Then a voice note came. I pressed play.
"Goodnight, Elena." His voice was low and rough, but there was something in it I'd never heard before—a tenderness that made my heartbeat skip. "Sleep well."
I replayed it three times before I could bring myself to put the phone down. That voice, saying my name like it was something precious, followed me into sleep.
---
I woke to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and voices drifting up from downstairs. My fever was completely gone, leaving me feeling hollow but clearheaded for the first time in days.
As I descended the stairs, I could hear Father's voice from the living room, unusually animated and cheerful. When I reached the bottom of the staircase, I understood why.
Damon sat on our couch. Father was practically beaming as he spoke to him—such a stark contrast to the coldness he showed me.
Damon stood when he saw me, something that looked almost like genuine concern on his face. "Elena. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said quietly.
Damon's eyes searched my face. "Can we talk? Outside?"
Before I could answer, Father was already steering me toward the stairs. "Go get properly dressed, Elena. You and Damon need to spend more time together, build your relationship."
The casual way he said it—as if yesterday's public rejection had never happened—made my stomach turn.
I looked at Damon, trying to read his expression. His face was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes that looked almost... apologetic?
"I'm still recovering," I said carefully. "I don't think I should be out in the cold."
Father's expression darkened immediately. "Fresh air will do you good."
The warning in his voice was clear. I was supposed to comply.
I took a deep breath, looking directly at Damon.
"I don't think we have anything to talk about."
The words came out quiet but clear. Sharp.
Father's face went from flushed to deep red. He took a step toward me.
"What did you just say?"
I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes directly. My voice came out steady, colder than I'd ever heard it. "I said, we have nothing to discuss."
His palm was halfway to my face when Damon moved.
He stepped between us, one hand catching Father's wrist mid-swing. "Mr. Cross. Stop."
Father froze, shocked by the intervention. I stood behind Damon, my heart pounding but my expression blank.
"She didn't mean—" Father started.
"I meant exactly what I said." I cut him off, my voice sharp. "You told me to be polite yesterday. Well, politeness goes both ways. Compared to how he treated me yesterday, I think I'm being extremely polite."
Damon's shoulders tensed. He slowly released Father's wrist, turning slightly toward me. "Elena—"
I ignored them both. Turned and walked toward the staircase, feeling their stares burning into my back.