LOGINAlthough their marriage was not based on love in the beginning, Elena gave her heart to Damian, the man she once believed was her forever. She loved him with a devotion that burned through every storm, but when false whispers and cruel betrayals poisoned his trust, their love began to unravel. Now abandoned in her darkest hour, Elena clings to life as she fights to bring their fragile child into the world alone. Every cry of pain is a reminder of the man who should have been by her side but instead handed her a divorce agreement through a lawyer’s cold words, yet even as her body breaks and her heart bleeds, Elena cannot kill the love she feels for Damian. It lingers, haunting her, making every memory both a comfort and a torment. He was her first love, her only love; and perhaps her greatest mistake, but when tragedy and love collide, sometimes the cruelest ending is not deatth, it’s surviving with a heart that will never be whole again.
View MoreELENAThe car door slammed shut behind me and for a second, there was nothing but the sound of my own breath breaking apart. My mother slid in next to me, her perfume soft smelling like soft jasmine, filling the small space, and I hated that it made me feel like a child again. A child who ran to her mother when things hurt too much.I gripped the steering wheel even though I wasn’t driving. I just needed something solid.Then the tears came. Not soft, and not quiet. My tears were ugly, violent, and devastating.I bent forward, choking on sobs, my chest burning as though someone had taken a fistful of glass and shoved it inside.“Elena,” my mother whispered, horrified, her hands hovering before finally landing on my trembling shoulders. “What happened? Talk to me.”I laughed. God, I laughed. A hysterical, broken sound.“What happened?” I repeated, wiping my face with my sleeve only for more tears to replace them. “You were in there. You saw. They all sat there, pretending, smiling at m
DAMIAN I knew the moment I stepped out of the dining room that something was wrong. You don’t live with guilt for three years without developing a sixth sense for disaster. And right now, every instinct in me is screaming Elena. I find her in the hallway, standing in front of that door. The pink door, the one she was never supposed to see. My heart slams into my ribs so hard I swear I hear it. “Elena, don’t go in there,” She jumps at the sound of her name and spins around. Her eyes are cold, sharp and suspicious. “Why is that room pink?” she asks, voice like steel. I swallow. Hard. “It’s—It’s nothing. A renovation. My mother, she wanted—” “Don’t lie to me.” And there it is. The one thing I feared most. Her tone, that stare, the version of Elena who sees right through me. “Elena, listen—” “Answer me, Damian.” I open my mouth but nothing coherent comes out. I can’t tell her here, not like this, not when she’s already drowning in arson investigations, her mother’s trauma
ELENADinner at the Blackwood house feels like stepping into a soap opera I didn’t audition for, but, apparently, still got cast in as the main character. The moment we sit down, I see Isabelle attempt to position herself beside Damian.Key word: attempt, because Damian’s mother swoops in like a loyalty-trained hawk. “No, no, Isabelle dear, that’s Elena’s seat. You sit… there.”She gestures to the furthest chair, one that’s practically in another postal code.I nearly choke on my own silent laughter.Isabelle sits stiffly, like the chair personally offended her. Meanwhile, Damian's parents keep fussing over me and my mother, passing us dishes first, asking about our week, complimenting everything from my dress to my earrings.It’s sweet, and also extremely petty.I love it.Isabelle tries to join the conversation several times, but each attempt ends in smoke.She leans forward, smiling way too hard.“Elena, I love your dress. Is it new?”I sip my wine, smile sweetly. “Oh, thank you
DAMIAN The moment Elena’s car pulls out of the parking lot, my lungs stop working. She waves once through the window,something soft, something polite, something that shouldn’t make my stomach pitch like I’m about to confess to murder,and then she’s gone. Disappearing down the street with the same quiet unintentional cruelty she’s always had: showing up, breathing, existing, and reminding me of every secret I’ve buried with a shovel that’s starting to crack. Fuck. Panic hits me so fast I actually take a step like I’m going to chase after her. Not because of the stupid dinner, and definitely Not because she’ll meet my mother again. But because she is so damn close, too close to the one truth I’ve been choking on for three years. Angela. The daughter she thinks died because of me. And she’s about to sit across from the woman who has never successfully kept her mouth shut for more than six consecutive minutes. My mother loves Elena. She worships her like a saint dipped in rosema
ELENAIt had been a long week. A ridiculously long week. The kind of week that felt like a year squeezed into five exhausting days, running between meetings, dealing with Paul, chasing housing options, keeping my mother from having an emotional landslide, and smiling politely at people I wanted to strangle with biodegradable shopping bags.So naturally, the universe decided I hadn’t suffered enough and sent me to the grocery store.I was just comparing two brands of organic pasta, one with less sodium, one with fewer carbs, both overpriced when I caught a glimpse of someone walking towards my aisle. Tall, broad shoulders, annoyingly confident stride.Damian.Of course he was here. Of course.My entire body reacted like I’d seen a wild predator. I dropped the pasta into my basket, spun around, and brisk-walked—fine, ran out of the aisle like a fugitive escaping a crime scene.I turned the corner into the next aisle, leaned against the shelf, exhaled in relief—“Elena? Oh my goodness, E
ELENA I leaned back in my chair, the corner of my mouth twitching as I watched Isabelle pretend to be warm and cordial. She fidgeted with her napkin a delicate, practised nervousness, as though she’d rehearsed this entire scene in the mirror this morning. “So…” she began again, her tone deliberately light. “How’s your mother? I heard about the fire. Such a tragedy.” Her eyes flickered with something sharp, maybe curiosity disguised as sympathy. I tilted my head, studying her. "She’s fine, thankfully. Still recovering, but fine.” “That’s good to hear,” she said, smiling that little too-sweet smile. “You must have been so scared.” “I was,” I said, my voice cool. “But we’re managing.” There was a brief silence, the kind that hung between two people who had no business pretending to care about each other. The waiter arrived with coffee, and Isabelle gave him her most charming smile, then turned back to me with the same expression. “So…” she said, dragging out the word again like












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