Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 14

Elena: POV

Two days.

I'd stayed home for two goddamn days, locked away in that sprawling Billionaire's Row mansion like a wounded animal. The hickeys on my neck had faded to pale shadows—barely there, but still visible if you looked close enough.

I dabbed concealer over the marks this morning, my hand shaking as I stared at my reflection. Hollow eyes. Forced smile. A diamond ring hidden under my sweater on a silver chain, pressed against my heart like a brand.

My other hand drifted to my stomach—still flat, showing no signs of the life growing inside. How long could I keep this secret?

*Mrs. Sterling,* I thought bitterly. *What a fucking joke.*

The driver dropped me off at Sterling Fashion HQ at eight sharp.

---

The moment I stepped off the elevator, I knew something was wrong.

The usual morning chatter died down. Heads turned. Whispers started—not even subtle, just loud enough for me to hear every word.

"Did you see the news?"

"Victoria Astor's back from Paris!"

"Finally. Poor thing's been waiting three years."

My stomach dropped—and not from morning sickness.

I kept my eyes forward, walking toward my desk with my shoulders straight, even though my legs felt like they might give out.

"Morning, Elena." Sarah from accounting appeared at my elbow, her smile saccharine sweet. "You look tired."

"Just working on the spring collection," I said evenly, sliding into my chair.

"Mmm." She leaned against my desk. "Well, I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to rest soon. Once Mr. Sterling's *real* fiancée comes back, I mean."

My fingers froze on the keyboard.

Lisa from marketing joined her, holding a tablet. "Have you seen this?" She thrust the screen in my face.

The headline blazed across Page Six: **VICTORIA ASTOR RETURNS TO NYC AFTER THREE-YEAR PARIS EXILE**

The photo showed her descending from a private jet at Teterboro—elegant in a cream Chanel coat, blonde hair perfectly styled. And standing at the bottom of the stairs, reaching up to help her down, was Julian.

Even in the grainy photo, I could see the concern in his expression. The way his hand gripped hers. The protective stance of his body.

I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.

"Isn't it romantic?" Sarah sighed. "He flew out personally to bring her home. That's true love."

"Meanwhile," Lisa added, her voice dripping with fake sympathy, "some people are still trying to play mistress. It's honestly embarrassing."

A wave of nausea hit me. My hand moved instinctively to my stomach, then I forced it back to the desk.

I closed the browser tab. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Oh, we're not stopping you." Sarah's smile widened. "Just thought you should know—the homewrecker act is over. Time to pack your bags, honey."

They walked away laughing, their heels clicking like gunshots.

I sat there, staring at my blank screen, hands clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms.

*The real Mrs. Sterling.* The words echoed like a death sentence.

Three years. I'd given him three fucking years. And now I was carrying his child—a child he didn't even know about. And he'd flown to Paris to personally escort Victoria home like she was some kind of queen.

While I hid in the shadows like the dirty secret I was.

My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus:

[Mr. Sterling moved the afternoon meeting to The Whitmore Club. 2 PM. Client prefers private setting. Car will pick you up at 1:30.]

The Whitmore Club. One of Manhattan's most exclusive private clubs.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

---

The morning dragged on like torture. Every time someone walked past, I heard whispers:

"Did you see Victoria's Instagram? She posted about 'coming home to the man she loves.'"

"I heard she's been sick. Depression. That's why she stayed in Paris."

"Poor Elena. She really thought she had a chance."

I kept my head down, focusing on hem measurements. The numbers blurred. My hands shook.

Around eleven, another wave of nausea hit. I rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to a stall before I threw up what little breakfast I'd managed.

I leaned against the cool tile wall, breathing hard, one hand pressed protectively over my stomach.

*I can't do this,* I thought desperately. *I can't raise a child alone. I can't keep working here, watching Julian with Victoria, pretending everything's fine.*

But what choice did I have?

Around noon, Marcus stopped by with coffee. "Thought you could use this."

The smell hit me like a physical blow. My stomach lurched.

"Thanks," I managed, pushing it away. "But I think I'll stick with water today."

He frowned. "You sure you're okay to do this meeting? I can reschedule—"

"I'm fine," I lied.

He didn't look convinced. "The client today is Richard Morrison. Hotel magnate. He can be... difficult. Just stay professional and let Mr. Sterling handle him if things get uncomfortable."

"I will. Thanks, Marcus."

---

At 1:30, a black town car pulled up outside. The driver held the door as I slid inside, portfolio clutched to my chest like a shield.

The Whitmore Club was on the Upper East Side, housed in a renovated Gilded Age mansion. The kind of place that smelled like old money and older secrets.

I was escorted to a private meeting room on the second floor—all dark wood paneling, leather chairs, and oil paintings of dead white men. A sidebar held crystal decanters of whiskey and brandy.

The evening gown prototypes were already set up on dress forms in the corner, the midnight blue silk catching the afternoon light.

I arranged my notes on the mahogany table, trying to steady my breathing.

The door opened.

A man walked in—mid-fifties, expensive suit, salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled. He had the polished look of old money, though something about his too-white smile felt rehearsed.

"You must be Elena." He extended his hand. "Richard Morrison. I've heard wonderful things about your work."

I shook his hand, relieved by the professional greeting. "Mr. Morrison. It's a pleasure."

"Please, call me Richard." He gestured to the dress forms. "These are even more stunning in person. Sterling wasn't exaggerating about your talent."

"Thank you. I'm very proud of this collection."

"As you should be." He moved to the sidebar. "Now, shall we have a drink while we wait for Julian? I have a twenty-five-year-old Macallan here that's absolutely divine."

He reached for the crystal decanter, pouring amber liquid into a glass.

"I appreciate the offer, but I can't," I said quickly, my hand moving unconsciously to my stomach. "I've been fighting off a cold. Alcohol won't help."

*For the baby,* I thought. *I can't drink for the baby.*

Morrison paused mid-pour. For just a second, something flickered in his eyes—disappointment? Irritation?—but then his expression smoothed back into that practiced smile.

"Of course, how thoughtless of me." He set down the decanter and pressed a button on the wall. "Let me call for something else."

A server appeared within seconds, dressed in the club's signature burgundy vest.

"The lady would like a non-alcoholic beverage," Morrison said pleasantly. "What would you prefer, Elena?"

"Just lemon juice at room temperature, please." Something to settle my stomach.

"Certainly, miss." The server started to leave, but Morrison caught his arm.