Chapter 8: Don't Show Your Face Again

Lena's POV

Elliott's back went rigid the instant the words left my mouth.

He spun to face Julian, his smile curdling into something stiff and unconvincing, a faint sheen of sweat already forming at his temple. "Father, don't listen to Lena. We haven't broken up — we just had a little disagreement." His voice was quick, almost breathless, the way a man sounds when he's trying to outrun his own lie. "She's been emotionally unstable lately. She even made a scene at the clinic today. You know how women are — they throw around the word 'breakup' when they're upset. It doesn't mean anything."

He said all of this while keeping his eyes locked on mine, a sharp, unmistakable warning burning behind them: keep your mouth shut.

"That's right, Julian." Cecilia moved in on cue, one hand pressed to the small of her back, her expression arranged into something soft and helpless — the picture of a woman graciously defending someone she pitied.

"Lena has been under a lot of pressure recently. She gets a little short-tempered, and Elliott has been nothing but patient with her. He came all the way here tonight because he was worried about her." She let out a small, practiced sigh. "Every couple argues. Lena, you really shouldn't let a moment of frustration make you say things you'll regret. You'll only worry Julian."

I watched the two of them perform their little duet and felt my stomach turn.

They had gotten very good at this — at rewriting the story so cleanly that even they might have believed it.

"You two really are something," I said, my voice coming out flat and cold. I took a step forward and let my gaze move between them, slow and deliberate. "Anyone watching would think you were the couple. Must be exhausting, covering for each other like this. Or maybe it's not covering at all — maybe there's something going on between you."

"Lena!"

Elliott exploded. The color rushed into his face all at once, and his hand shot up before his brain had a chance to stop it.

"What the hell is wrong with you —"

But his arm froze in midair.

Because Julian was looking at him.

That gaze didn't move, didn't waver — it simply settled on Elliott the way a blade settles against skin, cold and perfectly still. Elliott felt it. His entire body locked up, and in the space of a single breath, whatever rage had overtaken him collapsed back into something smaller and more frightened.

He lowered his hand. He straightened his jacket. He manufactured a thin, unconvincing smile. "I apologize, Father. I lost my composure. An accusation like that is an insult to this family's reputation, and I shouldn't have reacted the way I did." Then he turned to me, jaw tight, and pushed out words that had no warmth in them whatsoever. "Lena. I'm sorry for raising my voice. But I'd appreciate it if you chose your words more carefully."

Before I could respond, he stepped forward and closed his hand around my wrist.

"Let's talk. Privately."

He didn't wait for my answer. He pulled me around the corner into the shadowed stretch of hallway, his grip hard enough that I could feel each of his fingers pressing into the bone.

"Let go of me," I said, low and sharp.

He released my wrist without argument. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, produced a checkbook, and wrote quickly. He tore the check free and pressed it into my hand.

"Five hundred thousand dollars." His voice had dropped to something quiet and deliberate, the kind of quiet that carries more threat than shouting ever could. "Keep your mouth shut. Don't say another word to my father tonight. Take the money, leave New York, and we're done. But if you try to expose anything between me and Cecilia —" he let the pause do the work — "you won't like what comes next."

I looked down at the check in my hand. The edge of the paper was slightly sharp where it had been torn, pressing a faint line into my fingertip.

I knew what Elliott was capable of. If I pushed him into a corner right now — with my grandmother still in that hospital bed, with the Lambert family's assets still beyond my reach — he would come at me like something cornered and rabid. I needed time. I needed leverage I didn't yet have. This was not the moment to burn everything to the ground.

I folded the check and slid it into my pocket.

"Fine," I said, meeting his eyes without any expression at all. "You'll get what you paid for. But don't come near me again."

The relief that moved across Elliott's face was almost embarrassing. He adjusted his jacket, and just like that, the arrogance was back — settled over him like a second skin. "Smart girl," he said, and turned away.

We walked back to the others. The hallway felt colder than before.

Then Cecilia's phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, stepped slightly aside, and answered in a lowered voice. When she turned back, her eyes were wide with worry, her lower lip caught between her teeth — the whole performance of a woman who needed to be taken care of. "Julian," she said softly, directing all of it at him, "that was home. My grandfather isn't feeling well. The driver is off tonight, and I — I don't really want to go alone. Would you be able to —"

Julian stood completely still and looked at her for a moment with those gray-blue eyes that gave away absolutely nothing.

"Elliott." He didn't say anything else. Just the name.

Elliott blinked, then nodded immediately. "Yes, Father. Of course."

Something flickered across Cecilia's face — a brief, involuntary tightening around the eyes — before she smoothed it back into compliance. She had no choice, and she knew it.

"As for me," Julian said, his gaze shifting almost imperceptibly, landing somewhere in my direction, "I still have business here."

The elevator doors slid shut, and then it was just the two of us left in the corridor — the clean white light pressing down on the polished floor, the soft mechanical hum of the building settling around us like quiet.

I watched the floor numbers descend above the elevator doors. The tension in my shoulders didn't fully release, but something in me loosened, just slightly. The check in my pocket felt warm against my thigh, its torn edge still faintly sharp through the fabric.

"Come on," Julian said. He turned and walked back toward the VIP wing without waiting.