Chapter 5. The Breaking Point

(Elena’s POV)

Lucien didn’t look at me straight away. He kept his head bent over a stack of files, flipping pages with the bored precision of a man whose time was far too valuable for whatever I might say. Then slowly his eyes lifted. Cold. Sharp. Already carrying the verdict.

“I don’t have time to play house with you, Elena. Take it back.”

The divorce papers crinkled in my grip. “I’m not playing.”

The pen in his hand hit the desk with a metallic clang that made me flinch. The sound seemed to rattle inside my chest, like a warning bell before a storm.

“What’s your excuse?” His voice was ice. “Do I smell? Am I-” a faint, scornful pause “infertile? Careful, Elena. Spread something like that and you’ll be the one who pays.”

My mouth was dry. “Those weren’t my words. I wrote my reasons clearly.”

He snatched the papers from me, skimming them like each page was an insult. Halfway down, his eyes stilled. His jaw clenched.

“No love. No intimacy. A marriage in name only.” His voice had dropped to something far more dangerous. “Explain.”

I met his gaze without flinching. “I’m describing the truth.”

He stood so abruptly that the air seemed to shift. Every step he took toward me tightened the room until my back was pressed against the desk. His hands landed on either side of me, locking me in place.

“Truth?” he murmured, low and lethal. “Then tell me, truthfully, who was the man last night? The one who had you moaning and begging him not to leave?”

Heat shot up my neck.

Last night I made a mistake. A desperate, foolish grasp for connection that burned bright for half an hour before collapsing into the same cold silence we’d been drowning in for years.

I pushed against his chest, but he didn’t move. “If we’re measuring performance,” I said sharply, “you’re well below standard. Shall I shout it from the rooftops like a ninety-year-old bragging about managing it once every three years?”

The vein at his temple pulsed. I hadn’t said it to be cruel, I was just exhausted. Exhausted from this ritual where we never touched unless we had to. Exhausted from being married to a man who looked at me like I was a stranger trespassing on his life.

His hand closed around my wrist, pulling me flush against him. The edge of the desk bit into my lower back. My hair spilled over the polished wood.

“I didn’t realise Mrs. Whitmore had such… needs,” he said, mocking curling at the edges of his voice. “Tell me who will you run to when you leave me?”

“I won’t run to anyone.” My voice trembled, not from fear, but from the pressure mounting in my chest. “I just don’t want to spend my life begging for scraps from my own husband.”

His mouth twisted into a sneer. “Begging? Is that what you call trapping me four years ago? You wanted this marriage. Now you have it.”

“That night-” I began, but he cut me off.

“You poured me the drink. You were the one with the key to my room. Don’t insult me with lies.”

My nails dug into my palms. “You’ve convinced yourself that’s the truth because it’s easier than admitting you might be wrong.”

He gave a humourless laugh. “You think I’m wrong?”

“Yes!” My voice rose before I could stop it. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be married to someone who doesn’t believe a single word I say? To live in a house where the walls are built from your distrust?”

We were both breathing harder now not from desire, but from years of bitterness finally clawing to the surface.

“And what exactly do you think you’ll get after you walk away from this?” he asked coldly. “A little freedom? Without me, you’ll have nothing. No name. No shield.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped me. “You think I’d rather be caged in a mansion than free in a shoebox? You think the jewellery, the cards, all of it make up for being treated like I’m withering on the vine?”

His grip on my wrist tightened. His face was only inches from mine. “You want freedom so badly? Fine. But don’t come crawling back when the world eats you alive.”

Something in me splintered. I shoved him hard enough that he stumbled a step. My voice shook, but it was with the force of finally saying what I’d been swallowing for years.

“I never cared about your name. I never cared about your family. I just wanted you, Lucien. You. And you gave me nothing.”

The words hung in the air, sharp as glass.

For the first time in years, he didn’t have a comeback.

And for the first time in years, I wasn’t afraid to turn my back on him.