Chapter2 Home
Elena
Four days after I walked out of that penthouse, I stood on my mother's porch in Mossglen—A town neither too close nor too far from Calford City, my hand frozen on the doorknob.
Thirty seconds. That's how long I stayed there, staring at the chipped paint on the door frame.
The brick house looked exactly the same. Two stories. Mom's herb garden by the front steps, rosemary and thyme going wild.
Behind it, the rust-belt town stretched out like a corpse—abandoned steel mill, boarded-up storefronts, that fucking car graveyard where we used to play as kids.
I'd spent three days holed up in my Greenveil studio. Working until my hands cramped. Sleeping in two-hour bursts. Trying to convince myself I was fine.
I wasn't fine.
But I was done crying.
I pushed the door open.
"Elena?" Mom's voice came from the living room. Then she appeared in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. Her smile died the second she saw my face. "What happened?"
Sarah Sawyer was fifty-two, with short brown hair going silver at the temples. Warm brown eyes. Soft jawline. The kind of face that belonged in a Norman Rockwell painting.
Nothing like mine.
Her round face, my high cheekbones. Her brown eyes, my blue ones. Her medium build, my lean frame.
When I was little, I'd asked once: "Mom, why don't I look like you?" She'd smoothed my hair and said, "You look like your father, sweetie." Then changed the subject. I'd learned not to push.
"Caspar and I separated." I set my suitcase down. Each movement deliberate. Controlled. Like disassembling a watch movement.
Mom's face went white. Then red. She set down her mug hard enough that coffee slopped over the rim. "That bitch came back? The one who ran to Paris when he was in a wheelchair?"
I nodded. My throat tight.
"I fucking knew it." Mom started pacing, her slippers scuffing against the hardwood. Her hands clenched into fists.
"Three years ago, that helicopter crash. Doctors said his spinal cord was damaged. Said he might never walk again. And Chloe Vance—that spoiled Old Money princess—she was on a plane to Europe within twenty-four hours. Said she needed to 'treat her mental health issues.' Bullshit. She just didn't want to deal with a cripple."
She whirled on me. Tears in her eyes. "But you stayed. You were there every single day. Physical therapy. Massage. Turning him at night so he wouldn't get bedsores. You were his goddamn nurse for a year."
The memories hit like shrapnel.
Kneeling beside his bed at two AM. My fingers digging into the rigid muscles of his calves. Working the same spots until my hands went numb, until my knuckles ached.
The way he'd look at me sometimes in the Rehab Center's afternoon light—like he saw me. Really saw me. And I'd been stupid enough to think it meant something.
"Now he can walk again." Mom's voice dripped acid. "Now he's back running his empire. And that woman comes crawling back. So he just kicks you out?"
"He offered compensation." My voice came out flat. Dead. "Five million dollars."
Mom stopped pacing. "Five million—"
"I didn't take it."
Silence crashed down like a fallen chandelier.
Mom stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "Elena. That's five million dollars."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I don't need his money." I walked to the window. Looked out at the decaying town, the mill's smokestacks rising like tombstones against gray sky. My reflection in the glass looked hollow.
"Grandfather taught me a skill, so I can earn my own keep."
Mom was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. Careful. "You loved him."
Not a question.
I closed my eyes. Pressed my forehead against the cold glass. "Yeah. I did."
"And he just threw you away."
"The contract was clear, Mom. Three years. Medical debt paid. Clean break." I turned to face her, forcing my spine straight. "I knew what I was signing up for."
"Bullshit." Mom crossed the room in three strides. Gripped my shoulders hard enough to hurt. "You were twenty years old, Elena. Your grandfather was dying. Those experimental treatments cost a fortune. You had no choice."
My chest felt tight. Like someone had wrapped steel bands around my ribs. "It doesn't matter now."
"Doesn't it?" Her eyes searched mine, brown meeting blue. "Are you really okay with this?"
Was I?
I thought about the penthouse. The garden I'd planted. The roses I'd pruned every Sunday morning. Three years of trying to make a home out of a business arrangement.
Three years of falling in love with a man who'd never wanted me. Who'd been waiting for someone else the whole time.
"No." The word came out raw. Scraped from somewhere deep. "But wanting him to stay doesn't change the fact that his heart was never mine. It was always hers."
Mom pulled me into a hug. I stood there stiffly for a moment, my arms at my sides. Then let myself lean into her warmth. The familiar smell of her lavender soap. The softness of her worn cardigan.
She was the only person in the world who'd ever loved me without conditions.
"What are you going to do?" she asked quietly.
"Work. Build a career. Do my own things." I pulled back. Met her eyes.
"I've already got a job lined up. Marcus Weber—you remember him from college? He opened a restoration workshop in Brookhaven District. Asked me to join his team."
"Marcus." Mom's eyebrows rose. A small smile tugged at her mouth. "The one who had a crush on you?"
"He was just a friend."
"Honey, that boy followed you around like a puppy. Always found excuses to sit next to you in the library. Always offering to carry your toolbox." She studied my face.
"Does he know about the divorce?"
"No. I didn’t told him."
Mom nodded slowly. Then squeezed my hand. "Good. Stay tonight. Your room's still the same. Tomorrow you can start fresh."
"Thanks, Mom."
She pulled me close again. Kissed the top of my head like I was still ten years old. "You're stronger than you think, Elena. You always have been."
I wasn't sure about that.
But I was done being weak.
