Chapter 3
Elara
"Keep your money," I said. The words came out flat, dead. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Why would I want anyone to know about this?"
I pushed past him toward the door, my legs unsteady beneath me. My whole body felt wrong, like it didn't belong to me anymore. Like I'd left some essential part of myself somewhere in this room and I'd never be able to get it back.
"Wait," Damien said again, but I was already at the door, my hand on the handle.
I paused. Didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For what it's worth. I didn't know."
I left without answering.
The hallway was too bright, too clean, too normal. A maid's cart sat outside a room three doors down. A couple in matching jogging outfits walked past, laughing about something I couldn't hear.
The world was exactly the same as it had been yesterday.
But I wasn't.
I made it to the elevator before the tears started. Made it down to the lobby before they turned into sobs that I had to muffle against my hand. Made it out onto Fifth Avenue before I had to stop, had to lean against the cold stone of the building and just breathe.
The Plaza Hotel loomed behind me, all gilded elegance and old money. I'd felt so special last night, walking through those doors with Vivienne's keycard in my hand. Like I was someone important. Someone who belonged in a place like this.
Now I just felt dirty.
My phone rang. I pulled it out, saw Vivienne's name on the screen, and felt something hot and violent surge through my chest.
I let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. Watched the notification pop up, then deleted it without listening.
She called again. And again.
On the fourth call, I answered.
"Elara! Oh my God, I've been trying to reach you all morning. Are you okay? Did you—"
"I know what you did." My voice was steady. Cold. I barely recognized it as my own. "I know exactly what you did, Vivienne."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Elara, I don't know what you're talking about. I just wanted to make sure you were okay after last night. You were pretty drunk, and I—"
"You sent me to the wrong room."
More silence.
"You gave me a keycard to Damien Sinclair's suite. You knew Marcus wasn't there. You knew exactly what would happen."
"I—" She stopped. Started again. "Look, it was a mistake, okay? I must have grabbed the wrong card from the front desk. These things happen. I'm sorry if—"
"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't lie to me anymore. I heard you on the phone with him. I heard you tell him you sent me as a gift."
The silence stretched so long I thought she'd hung up.
"You were never going to be enough for him, Elara." Her voice was different now. Colder. The mask was off. "Marcus deserves better than some orphan girl from the countryside. Damien deserves better than me. I thought... I thought maybe we could all get what we wanted."
"What you wanted," I said. "You mean what YOU wanted."
"Same thing." She laughed, and it was the ugliest sound I'd ever heard. "Look, I did you a favor. Now you can let Marcus go without feeling guilty about it. You got your little fairy tale night, even if it was with the wrong prince. And Damien... well, Damien got exactly what I promised him. Everyone wins."
"Everyone wins," I repeated numbly.
"You'll understand eventually," Vivienne said. "When you grow up a little. When you realize that love isn't enough in the real world. Money is. Power is. And I'm going to have both."
She hung up.
I stood there on Fifth Avenue with my phone pressed to my ear and my heart in pieces on the ground, and I finally understood.
I'd never really known Vivienne Hart at all.
I don't remember the walk back to my apartment. Don't remember climbing the four flights of stairs or unlocking my door or collapsing onto my bed still wearing yesterday's clothes.
I remember staring at my ceiling and thinking about Marcus. About how he'd waited for me all night in some other room. About how he was probably boarding his plane right now, thinking I'd just forgotten, or gotten cold feet, or—
My phone buzzed again.
I stared at my phone screen, watching it ring with Mrs. Cole's name flashing across the display. My thumb hovered over the decline button.
I should've known she'd call. Marcus's mother had never liked me. She'd made that clear from the first time Marcus brought me home for dinner two years ago, the way her eyes had swept over my thrift store dress and secondhand shoes, the way her smile had never quite reached her eyes.
I answered.
"Miss Ashford?" Her voice was crisp, professional. Like she was conducting a business transaction instead of calling her son's girlfriend. "This is Mrs. Cole. Marcus's mother. I think we need to have a conversation."
"Mrs. Cole." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I—"
"Let's be realistic, Elara." She cut me off smoothly. "Marcus is going to London for two years. When he comes back, he'll be a different person—more successful, more refined. You've seen the kind of opportunities waiting for him."
I closed my eyes. Pressed my free hand against my stomach where nausea was building again.
"I don't understand what this has to do with—"
"I won't hide it from you." Her tone shifted, became almost conversational. Like she was doing me a favor by being honest. "There's another girl going with him. Someone from a good family, someone who can actually help his career. She's the one who recommended him for this position, actually. We all think she's perfect for our family."
The words hit me like physical blows.
Another girl.
Going with him.
To London.
