Chapter 6

Elena

I DIDN’T EXPECT him to come home before eight. Julian had a habit of disappearing into meetings that blurred into late nights, returning only after I’d stopped waiting up. So when I heard the lock click just past six, I nearly dropped my mascara wand.

He stepped inside the penthouse like he always did—silent, assured, detached.

But this time, he stopped in his tracks.

I stood in the living room, already dressed for dinner. Black silk clung to me like quiet defiance. Earrings in, lipstick fresh, heels laced on. Not for him. Not even for the event. Just for me. For the version of me who still believed she had some control over how this story would unfold.

His eyes flickered with something I couldn’t read.

“You’re dressed,” he said, voice low with a hint of something sharp.

I turned to face him, voice calm. “Callum mentioned the dinner.”

His jaw twitched.

“Callum,” he repeated, like the name alone offended him.

I straightened my posture. I hated how small I felt when he looked at me like that, like I'd committed treason for simply being informed. “We ran into each other earlier. Grocery store.”

Julian's face darkened. “Of course you did.”

I frowned. “What was I supposed to do? Hide behind the cheese aisle?”

He tossed his keys onto the marble counter, the sound sharp. “You don’t need to explain. I already told you, stay away from him.”

My temper flared. “It was accidental. And besides, what do you expect me to do when he talks to me? Run the other way like a cartoon character?”

Julian’s voice lowered, cold. “That man isn’t what he seems.”

“Maybe not. But at least he looks at me when I speak.”

The silence that followed was sudden and suffocating.

He stared at me—hard, searching—but said nothing. Just turned away and headed to the bedroom to change, leaving the argument unfinished and burning in the air between us.

THE DRIVE was silent.

We sat in the backseat of the Blackwood town car, him scrolling through his phone, me staring at the city lights outside the window like they were stars I’d never get to touch.

By the time we arrived at the restaurant, one of those exclusive, members-only establishments with hushed service and chandelier mood lighting. We were both playing our roles again.

He offered me his arm.

I took it.

Inside, familiar faces greeted us. Some I recognized from the gala. Others from family photos Julian’s mother had once shown me during a painfully awkward brunch. But it was my own parents who approached us first.

“Elena,” my father beamed, straightening his tie as if his very presence in this elite space needed to be justified. “You look stunning tonight.”

“Thank you, Dad.” I kissed his cheek, then turned to my mother, who kissed the air beside mine in that distant, glossy way she always did.

“You were lovely at the gala,” my father added, then looked to Julian. “Both of you, really. I was told you handled yourselves perfectly, especially Elena. Even when someone wasn’t there to manage the introductions.”

My stomach dropped a little.

Julian’s mouth twitched at the edge, but he said nothing. He didn’t even look at me.

My father clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “You’ve married well. She knows how to behave.”

I felt like a trophy someone had dusted off just to show off again.

And then Callum arrived.

He was laughing with someone at the entrance, his smile flashing under the warm lights. He caught sight of us almost immediately and raised his glass in greeting. His eyes lingered a little too long on mine before he joined a group near the bar.

Julian’s shoulders tensed beside me. He didn’t say a word, but I could feel it. The shift. The cold heat that always ignited whenever Callum entered a room.

“Let’s sit,” he said tightly.

Dinner passed in a blur of slow courses and slower conversation. Across the table, Callum kept glancing at me with that same amused smirk, as though the tension amused him. Like he was reading a book only he found entertaining.

Julian, on the other hand, was all sharp edges and clenched jaw. He cut through his food like it had wronged him personally. Barely spoke unless necessary. But every time Callum smiled in my direction, Julian’s stare burned into him like ice under pressure.

I stayed quiet. Played polite. Let the silence between the brothers build into something thick and unspoken.

Until he arrived.

Julian and Callum’s father.

Thomas Blackwood.

He moved through the room like a shadow in a tailored suit, posture stiff, expression colder than any winter I’d ever known. I'd only seen him once before, at the wedding, and even then, it had been a brief, terrifying handshake and a nod. A man whose authority seemed to hover around him like a crown made of steel.

He barely acknowledged me as he approached our table.

“Julian,” he said without warmth. “Callum.”

“Father,” they said in unison, the word more formal than familial.

He took the empty chair at the head of the table, nodding curtly to the server who rushed over to pour him wine. “We’ll keep this short.”

Thomas looked between his sons, then at me, as if remembering I existed.

“Your grandmother’s birthday is this weekend,” he said. “We’re all expected at the estate. Saturday morning.”

Julian didn’t even blink. “I won’t be attending.”

His father sipped his wine. “Yes, you will.”

“I have meetings.”

“They’ll be rescheduled.”

Julian’s knuckles tightened around his fork.

Thomas turned his gaze to Callum, who only smiled lazily and raised a brow. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Of course he wouldn’t.

Julian looked down at his plate, jaw tense, and for the first time that night, I saw something that wasn’t disdain or indifference.

It was resistance. Quiet. Bitter. Exhausted.

Thomas stood just as quickly as he sat, finishing half a glass and placing it down with a click.

“Saturday,” he said again, like it was law.

Then he left.

No goodbye. No pleasantries. Just authority in its rawest form, dropped like a gavel.

Julian didn’t speak for the rest of dinner.

BACK IN THE CAR, I sat with my hands folded in my lap, watching the reflections of city lights flicker across the window.

He finally broke the silence.

“You don’t have to come to the estate.”

I looked at him. “It’s your grandmother’s birthday.”

“She won’t notice if you’re not there.”

“Maybe not. But everyone else will.”

He didn’t argue.

I waited for him to say something else. To explain. To soften. He didn’t.

So I leaned back, closed my eyes, and imagined what it would be like to be part of a family that didn’t feel like a corporate battlefield.

Where birthdays meant candles and music, not manipulation and silent wars.

Where love wasn’t something people used as leverage.

Where a husband looked at his wife and actually saw her.

But maybe that kind of life only existed on canvas.

And I hadn’t picked up a brush in weeks.