Chapter 7: A Night of freedom II

“Hey,” she said, trying to sound normal. “How’s Boston?”

“Exhausting. These meetings are killing me.” He sounded tired. And something else—guilty, maybe? “How are you? What did you do last night?”

Last night, when she’d been in another man’s bed. Last night, when she’d discovered what it felt like to be wanted.

“Nothing much,” Elena lied smoothly. “Watched a movie. Went to bed early.”

“Good. You should rest. You’ve seemed stressed lately.”

Stressed. That was one word for it.

“Marcus,” Elena heard herself say. “Do you love me?”

Silence on the other end. Long enough that Elena’s heart started to pound.

“Of course I do,” Marcus said finally. But his voice was flat, automatic. The answer you give because it’s expected, not because it’s true. “Why would you ask that?”

“Just wondering.” Elena’s voice stayed steady somehow. “When are you coming home?”

“Thursday, like I said. Maybe Friday if these meetings run long.” A pause. “I should go. Conference call in five minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Elena?”

“Yeah?”

Another pause. “I—” He stopped. “Nothing. I’ll call you later.”

He hung up before she could respond.

Elena sat there in her towel, phone in hand, and finally let herself cry. Not the gut-wrenching sobs from their anniversary. Just quiet tears that slid down her cheeks and dripped onto her bare legs.

She cried for the five years she’d wasted. For the girl who’d believed in love and fairy tales. For the woman she’d become—invisible, diminished, so desperate for affection that she’d slept with a stranger just to feel human again.

And she cried because she didn’t even regret it.

When the tears finally stopped, Elena dried her face and got dressed. Real clothes this time—jeans and a sweater, comfortable and hers. Not chosen to please Marcus, not designed to be invisible.

She went to the guest room where her painting supplies waited. The canvas from last week was still there—the angry storm of colors she’d created after learning about Isabelle.

Elena stared at it for a long moment. Then she set up a new canvas beside it.

This one, she painted slowly. Deliberately. She mixed colors until they were exactly right—deep grays and silvers, touches of gold, shadows and light intertwined.

She painted until her back ached and the light faded from the windows. She painted storm-gray eyes behind a black mask. Strong hands holding hers gently. The feeling of being seen, translated into color and form.

She painted Dante without meaning to. Painted the man who’d given her one perfect night when her world was falling apart.

When she finally stepped back, the canvas showed a figure emerging from darkness into light. You couldn’t quite see his face, but you could feel the strength in him. The protection. The way he looked at something—someone—with complete focus.

It was the best thing Elena had painted in years.

She stood there, paintbrush still in hand, and realized something: she wasn’t going to survive this marriage. Not intact, anyway. Staying with Marcus was killing her slowly, turning her into a ghost.

But she didn’t know how to leave. Didn’t know where to go, what to do, how to be Elena Frost without also being Marcus Thorne’s wife.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Piccola, I hope you made it home safely. I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly. Last night was unexpected and precious. I meant what I said—you deserve to be happy. If you ever need anything, anything at all, call this number. —D

Elena stared at the message. He’d given her his number. A stranger she’d spent one night with had given her a way to reach him, while her own husband barely answered her calls.

She saved the number in her contacts. Not under Dante, that felt too real. Just “D.”

Then she typed: I’m home. Thank you for last night. I needed it more than you know.

Three dots appeared immediately. Then: You don’t have to thank me. It was my pleasure. Literally.

Despite everything, Elena smiled.

Very smooth, she typed.

I try. Are you okay? Really?

The question caught her off guard. When was the last time someone had asked if she was okay and actually waited for an answer?

Not really, she admitted. But I will be. Eventually.

If you need to talk, I’m here. No expectations. Just someone who thinks you’re remarkable and wants you to know it.

Elena’s throat tightened. Why are you being so nice to me?

Because someone should be. And because I meant every word I said last night.

She didn’t know how to respond to that. Didn’t know how to process this stranger’s kindness when her own husband could barely remember she existed.

I should go, she typed. But thank you. For everything.

Anytime, piccola. Anytime.

The conversation ended there, but Elena kept staring at her phone. At the proof that somewhere in the world, someone thought she was worth talking to. Worth being kind to.

Worth something.

She went downstairs and made herself dinner—not Marcus’s favorite meal, but hers. Pasta with vegetables, simple and comforting. She ate at the kitchen counter instead of the dining room table, her painting clothes still splattered with color.

For the first time in five years, Elena ate a meal in her own house and didn’t feel lonely.

That night, she slept in the guest room. She told herself it was because she’d been painting late and didn’t want to track paint through the house. But really, it was because she couldn’t sleep in the bed she’d shared with Marcus. Not after Dante. Not after finally understanding what it felt like to be wanted.

She dreamed of storm-gray eyes and gentle hands. Of a voice saying piccola like it was something precious. Of being held like she mattered.

When she woke up Tuesday morning, Marcus still wasn’t home. No call, no text, nothing.

Elena checked her phone. Still the message from D, asking if she was okay.

She scrolled through her messages with Marcus—weeks of one-word responses, canceled plans, excuses. Evidence of a man who’d checked out of his marriage long ago.

And she made a decision.

She called Sarah Chen.

“Elena,” Sarah answered immediately. “I was about to call you. We need to meet. Today if possible.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. But I found something. Something you need to see in person.” Sarah’s voice was grim. “Can you meet me in an hour? Same coffee shop?”

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

Elena hung up and got dressed quickly. Whatever Sarah had found, it was big enough to warrant an emergency meeting.

As she drove across town, Elena’s hands were steady on the wheel. No more tears, no more panic. Just a cold, clear certainty that whatever came next, she could handle it.

She’d survived five years with Marcus. She’d survived last night—both the best and worst decision of her life.

She could survive this too.

The coffee shop was nearly empty at nine AM on a Tuesday. Sarah was already there, the same leather portfolio in front of her, but this time her expression was even more serious.

“What is it?” Elena asked, sliding into the booth. “What did you find?”

Sarah pulled out a document and slid it across the table. “This is a contract. Dated three weeks ago. Signed by Marcus Thorne, Isabelle Laurent, and five other men.”

Elena picked it up with shaking hands. The legal language was dense, but certain phrases jumped out at her:

Subject agrees to participate…

Four specified individuals over four separate occasions…

Verification of paternity…

Evidence of infidelity…

“What is this?” Elena’s voice came out strangled.

“It’s a setup,” Sarah said bluntly. “Isabelle convinced Marcus that your marriage needs to end, but she wants it to be ‘your fault’ so you don’t get anything in the divorce. This contract outlines a plan where you’ll be placed in compromising situations with these five men. The situations will be photographed, documented. Then Marcus will file for divorce citing infidelity, and you’ll walk away with nothing.”

The coffee shop tilted sideways. Elena gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling.

“He signed this,” she whispered. “Marcus actually signed this.”

“Three weeks ago. Around the same time he found out Isabelle was alive.”

Elena read the names of the five men—all business associates of Marcus’s, all men she’d met at corporate dinners. Men who’d smiled at her politely while planning to destroy her reputation.

“They’re going to—” She couldn’t even say it.

“Force you into situations where it looks like you’re cheating. Then use it as evidence.” Sarah’s expression was granite-hard. “It’s fraud, it’s conspiracy, and depending on how far they plan to take it, it could be assault.”

“When?” Elena’s hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold the paper. “When are they planning to do this?”

“I don’t know yet. But soon. Isabelle’s impatient—she won’t wait long.” Sarah leaned forward. “Elena, you need to protect yourself. Get a lawyer. Move money. Get out of that house.”

“I can’t leave. Not yet. I need—” Elena stopped, her mind racing. “If I leave now, they’ll know I found out. They’ll change their plan. I need to wait until they make their move, then—”

“Then what? Let them assault you just to get evidence?”

“No.” Elena’s voice was cold now, crystalline with rage. “I let them try. And I document everything. And then I destroy them all.”

Sarah studied her for a long moment. “You’ve changed,” she said finally. “Since we first met. Something’s different.”

Elena thought about last night. About Dante’s hands, gentle and sure. About finally feeling like she mattered to someone.

“I remembered who I used to be,” she said quietly. “Before Marcus convinced me I was nothing.”

“Good.” Sarah pulled out the recording device she’d given Elena before. “Keep this on you at all times. And Elena? Be careful. Women like Isabelle are dangerous when cornered. And men like Marcus—men who’ve been exposed—they can be unpredictable.”

“I’ll be careful.”

But Elena wasn’t sure that was true. Because the woman who’d walked into this coffee shop was different from the woman who’d cried herself to sleep a week ago.

This woman was done being a victim.

This woman was ready to fight back.