บททั้งหมดของ Against all odds : บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Elliott’s POVI didn’t wait to hear the gasps or see the fallout. I didn’t glance back at Cecilia or my parents or the sea of stunned, silent guests. I just ran. Down the aisle, through the grand chapel doors, past the stunned coordinator trying to whisper my name like it would pull me back. My legs moved before my mind could catch up. All I knew was that I had to get out of there before I lost whatever courage I had left. The fabric of my tuxedo choked my chest, my breath short and sharp as the cold air bit at my face. I didn’t stop. Not for questions. Not for guilt. Not for anything.I didn’t even go home. I left everything. Wallet, luggage, dignity—I didn’t care. My phone buzzed nonstop in my pocket, but I turned it off before I could see who was calling. Probably Cecilia. My mother. Maybe even my father, which was a terrifying thought. But it didn’t matter. I hailed a cab with trembling fingers and told the driver the name of the airport like my life depended on it. Because it did

Cecilia’s POVThe headlines are everywhere. Runaway Groom Vanishes at Altar. Elliott Hale Walks Out on Society Wedding of the Year. Where Is the Golden Heir Now? My phone won’t stop buzzing. Reporters outside the estate. Tabloid drones flying over the garden. Photographers trying to catch a glimpse of me through curtained windows. But I don’t cry. Not anymore. I did that the first two hours. Alone in the bridal suite, veil still clutched in my shaking hand, dress wrinkled from the way I collapsed onto the floor. But now? Now I’m just furious.I’m not surprised. Not really. A woman knows when she’s losing a man—even when the world thinks she already has him. Elliott’s heart was never mine, not fully. Not since Luca. I saw it in the way he’d smile at texts he thought I didn’t see. Heard it in the quiet sighs late at night, the ones laced with regret. He never had to say the name. He didn’t need to. It hung between us like perfume—sweet, suffocating, unshakable.We had a deal, though. A

Elliott’s POVThe room is cold. Too cold.It’s not just the temperature, though the air feels like ice against my skin. It’s the emptiness. The silence. The feeling of being completely exposed under fluorescent lights that buzz faintly overhead. There’s no clock, but I know I’ve been sitting here for hours—long enough to feel every second carved into my bones.Then the screen turns on.No one warns me. No one asks if I’m ready. Suddenly, the footage is just there—playing out like a nightmare I can’t wake up from. Luca’s door bursting open. Armed officers swarming in. His face crumpling in confusion and fear. The way they shove him down, wrench his arms behind his back. He doesn’t resist. Of course he doesn’t. That’s not who he is.He’s scared. Hurt. Betrayed.And then… he looks for me.My image flashes on the screen for a moment—just a sliver of me standing in the hallway, mouth slightly open, frozen. I can barely recognize myself. I look like a coward. Because that’s what I am.I did

Elliott’s POVThe gates of my father’s mansion open slowly, like the jaws of a beast ready to swallow me whole. Everything is pristine, polished, golden—unchanged. But I’ve changed. Or maybe I’ve broken. Either way, stepping back into this house feels like putting the chains back on willingly. My feet feel heavy, my chest tighter with every step I take. The silence here isn’t peaceful; it’s watchful, waiting, suffocating.Cecilia is already waiting in the marble-floored foyer, standing like a statue carved for victory. Her silk dress is the same pale champagne she wore the day she announced her pregnancy, and her lips curve with a satisfaction that makes my skin crawl. She doesn't rush to hug me. No theatrics. Just a soft, smug smile as she says, “You did the right thing, Elliott.” Then she lays a hand on her stomach and adds, “For the baby. For us.” I can't even muster the strength to look at her for more than a few seconds.I walk past her without a word, my legs on autopilot, carry

Cecilia’s POVI move into the mansion like it’s already mine. My clothes fill the wardrobe. My skincare lines the marble counter in his bathroom. I bring in fresh roses for the hall, hire decorators to change the nursery theme three times in one week. The staff pretends not to notice. They smile, they nod, they offer their congratulations in soft, rehearsed tones. It’s all theater, and I play my role perfectly. The glowing mother-to-be. The dutiful fiancée. The woman who finally got what she wanted.I spend hours shopping for the baby. Cashmere blankets, designer onesies, a crib fit for royalty. Every bag I carry into this house is proof—I’m staying. I won. My father’s threats worked. Elliott returned. He wears the engagement ring I picked. He lets me touch his arm in public. And when the reporters snap photos of us entering restaurants or walking through the estate gardens, he even leans in close, like he cares. Like this isn’t a prison for us both.But I’m not stupid. I see the way