Chapter 4: The Escape

Elena's POV

I didn't go home. I couldn't face Tristan's penthouse, couldn't stand the thought of waiting in that sterile space for him to return from whatever he was doing with Serena. Instead, I drove aimlessly through the city until I found myself at a small café near the university where I'd once studied.

Marco was already there when I arrived, sitting at a corner table with two cups of hot chocolate. He stood when he saw me, his face breaking into a warm smile that faltered when he got a closer look at my expression.

"Elena." He pulled me into a gentle hug. "What's wrong?"

I held it together for exactly three seconds. Then I was crying into his shoulder, all the fear and hurt and exhaustion of the past few days pouring out of me.

"Hey, it's okay," Marco murmured, guiding me into a chair. "You're okay. I've got you."

When I could finally speak, I told him everything. Not about the pregnancy, not about the contract marriage, but about the suspension, about Serena's cruelty, about feeling invisible and worthless.

"That bastard suspended you?" Marco's usually gentle face was hard with anger. "For defending yourself?"

"He didn't see it that way. He only saw what Serena wanted him to see."

Marco shook his head. "You deserve so much better than this, Elena. You always have."

"I don't know what to do," I admitted. "I can't afford to lose this job. I can't..."

I couldn't tell him about the babies. Couldn't explain that my health insurance was tied to my employment, that without it, my high-risk pregnancy would bankrupt me.

"Actually," Marco said slowly, "that's part of why I reached out. I have a proposition for you."

I looked up, wiping my eyes. "What kind of proposition?"

"My firm just landed a massive contract. We're creating medical illustrations for a new surgical textbook series, and we need talented artists. Elena, I immediately thought of you." He leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. "I've seen your old portfolio. You were brilliant. You could still be brilliant."

"Marco, I haven't drawn anything in years."

"So? Talent doesn't disappear. And even if you're rusty, I can help you shake off the rust." He pulled out his phone, showing me images of his studio. "The pay is excellent. Full benefits, including health insurance. Flexible hours. You could work from home if you wanted."

Health insurance. The words were a lifeline in my drowning sea.

"I don't know," I said, but my mind was already racing. Could I do this? Could I actually leave the hospital, leave Tristan, and start over?

"Just think about it," Marco pressed. "Come see the studio. No pressure. Just look around, meet the team, remember what it felt like to create something beautiful."

His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I have to take this. Work call. But Elena, seriously, think about what I said. You deserve better than being someone's assistant."

He stepped outside to take the call, leaving me alone with my hot chocolate and my spiraling thoughts. Through the café window, I could see him talking animatedly, his hands gesturing as he spoke. This was the life I'd given up. The career I'd sacrificed for a man who couldn't even defend me against my stepsister's lies.

My hand drifted to my stomach. What kind of life could I give these babies? If I stayed with Tristan, they'd be born into a contract violation, unwanted and inconvenient. If I left, if I took Marco's job, maybe I could build something real. Something stable.

I was so lost in thought that I didn't notice someone approaching my table until a shadow fell aCaine me.

"Elena."

I looked up to find Tristan standing there, still in his hospital scrubs, his face dark with anger. My heart jumped into my throat.

"What are you doing here?" I managed.

"I could ask you the same thing." His eyes flicked to the two cups of hot chocolate, to Marco visible through the window. "Having a nice time with your friend?"

"How did you even find me?"

"I tracked your phone." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, like I didn't deserve privacy or autonomy. "We need to talk. Come home."

It wasn't a request. It was a command.

"No."

The word surprised both of us. Tristan's eyes widened fractionally before narrowing again.

"What did you say?"

"I said no." I stood up, matching his height as best I could at five-foot-five to his six-foot-two. "You suspended me, Tristan. You took Serena's side without even listening to mine. Why should I come home with you?"

"Because you're my wife." The words were low, dangerous.

"Your contract wife," I corrected. "There's a difference."

Something flickered in his eyes. Anger? Guilt? I couldn't tell anymore.

"Who is he?" Tristan jerked his chin toward Marco.

"A friend. From medical illustration school."

"The school you dropped out of to work for me."

"Yes. The career I gave up. The dreams I sacrificed. All for you." The words tumbled out, bitter and true. "And what did I get in return, Tristan? A fake marriage, a dead-end job, and the privilege of watching you love someone else."

"That's not fair."

"No, what's not fair is you tracking my phone like I'm your property. What's not fair is suspending me for defending myself. What's not fair is, is all of this!" My voice broke. "I can't do this anymore."

Tristan grabbed my wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but firm. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe I should take the job Marco offered me. Maybe I should move on."

His grip tightened. "You signed a contract."

"The contract says I can't have relationships with other men. It says nothing about taking a job." I pulled my wrist free. "Unless you're jealous?"

"Jealous?" He laughed, but it sounded forced. "Of him? Don't be ridiculous."

"Then there's no problem, is there?" I grabbed my purse. "I'll come by tomorrow to get my things from the penthouse. We can discuss the details of our arrangement then."

I tried to walk past him, but he blocked my path. For a long moment, we stood there, close enough that I could smell his cologne, close enough to see the conflict in his gray eyes.

"Elena," he said, and for just a second, his voice was almost soft. Almost vulnerable.

Then Marco came back inside, and the moment shattered.

"Everything okay here?" Marco asked, his eyes moving between us.

"Fine," I said quickly. "Marco, this is Dr. Tristan Caine. Tristan, this is Marco Bennett."

"The boss," Tristan said coldly, not extending his hand. "I've heard."

"The husband," Marco replied, equally cold. "I've heard too."

The testosterone in the air was suffocating. I grabbed Marco's arm. "Can we go? I'd like to see that studio now."

"Of course." Marco's hand settled on my lower back, protective. "Let's get out of here."

As we walked toward the door, I could feel Tristan's eyes burning into my back. I didn't look back. Couldn't look back.

Outside, in Marco's car, I finally let myself breathe.

"You okay?" Marco asked gently.

"No," I admitted. "But I will be."

As we drove toward his studio, my phone exploded with texts from Tristan. I turned it off without reading them.

For the first time in three years, I was choosing myself.

And it was terrifying.