Chapter 7: The Payoff

Elena’s POV

I struggled, but Damon was a solid wall of muscle. Julian was just upstairs—one floor between us and a total disaster. If he walked down now and caught us like this, my entire plan would go up in flames before I even made my first move.

Damon, of course, was loving every second of my panic. That smug, dark grin never left his face.

"What if he sees us? Wouldn't that be easier?" he murmured. "Then you’d finally have to sign those damn divorce papers."

"Damon, stop it!" I hissed, trying to shove him off with everything I had.

"Hmm?"

He didn't move an inch. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a hot, lingering kiss right against my earlobe. A violent shiver ripped through me. This man had figured out exactly where my buttons were in a single night, and he was clearly planning to push every last one of them.

My face was burning, a dull heat prickling the tips of my ears. I was caught somewhere between pure rage and a weird kind of vulnerability I absolutely hated. His fingers brushed my cheek, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"You’re playing a dangerous game, Damon," I spat through grit teeth.

"Dangerous? I don't think we’ve even started having fun yet."

His voice was low, magnetic—the cold businessman was gone, replaced by a possessive predator. I took a sharp breath, trying to get my heart rate under control.

"Let go. Julian could be down here any second."

He finally loosened his grip, but his eyes stayed locked on mine.

"Coward," he whispered, a hint of mockery in his tone.

I glared at him. "Get out. And if you don't let me handle this my way, forget about there ever being a 'next time.'"

It was a threat, and he knew it. Damon went still, his eyes darkening for a split second before a smirk returned.

"Fine. Get rid of him tonight. I’ll be back later."

I scrambled to my feet, smoothing out my dress and frantically fixing my hair. Damon just stayed sprawled on the sofa, watching me with the look of a man who already owned the room—and me. Annoyed by his sheer arrogance, I delivered a sharp kick straight to his shin.

"Ow!"

He winced, but I saw a flash of amusement—maybe even affection—in his eyes. I’d brought back that fire he seemed to like so much.

"Damon! Sorry to keep you waiting."

Julian was jogging down the stairs, straightening his tie. His hair was still damp from the shower. Damon stood up with an effortless, bored elegance.

"No problem. Your wife is... a charming hostess. We had a very interesting chat."

Julian walked over and threw an arm around my shoulders. It was a mindless, empty gesture. I felt Damon’s jaw tighten instantly, his gaze turning lethal. I subtly slipped away, pretending to fix a pillow.

"We were just talking about last night," I said, my voice dead neutral.

Julian’s face fell. "Right... well. Damon, we ready?"

"Ready."

Damon adjusted his cufflink with calculated slowness, throwing one last, heavy look my way. As they headed for the door, Julian turned back.

"Wait up for me tonight, Elena. We need to talk."

I didn't answer. But Damon’s voice trailed back, dripping with sarcasm:

"You heard your husband, Elena. He wants you to wait for him."

I knew what he was doing—he was reminding me of our deal: Kick him out. I bit my lip.

"Got it."

Once the house was empty, I finished packing the last few boxes. I called Chloe, my best friend.

"I’m sending some packages your way by courier. Can you grab them for me?"

"Finally!" Chloe practically screamed into the phone. "You’re actually leaving that suburban hellhole? This is the best news I’ve heard all year."

I walked over to the window. The garden, which used to be stunning, was falling apart from neglect. Just like my marriage.

"Three years, Chloe," I whispered. "Three years of waiting for the right moment."

"Are you sure about leaving the city?"

"Julian moved his whole toxic family in here. There’s nothing left for me in this place. It’s a literal poison."

"I bet he’s going to make the divorce a nightmare. He’s too proud."

"It’s not about pride anymore," I said, watching the street. "He won't have a choice."

After I hung up, I grabbed a stack of old photos—pictures from when we were teenagers, broke and happy. Without a second thought, I tossed the whole pile into the trash chute. As the garbage truck rumbled down the driveway, it felt like I was watching the ghost of the boy I once loved waving goodbye for the last time.

Around 10 PM, my phone buzzed. Julian. His voice was slurred; he was clearly trashed.

"Elena... come get me. The investors wiped me out... my assistant already left..."

I sat in the silence for a long moment before answering, my voice cold as ice:

"Figure it out yourself, Julian. Find your own way home. We’re done."

"Done? What are you... talking about?" he stammered.

"Us. The divorce."