Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 20

Elena: POV

We found a corner booth at that familiar karaoke bar on Bleecker Street. I took a few sips of sparkling water, my frayed nerves finally starting to settle.

Sophia watched me across the table, then said something that made my heart clench—words that hung between us like a ghost neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

'We're both in love with men who can't love us back.'

I stared at her, the confession settling over us like a heavy blanket.

"Lucas Reynolds," I said quietly.

She flinched, just slightly, then shook her head with a bitter smile. "I've mostly forgotten about him now." She took a long sip of her beer while I nursed my sparkling water. "Actually, I've been dating this super hot guy recently. Great face, killer body—literally perfect."

"And?" I prompted, already sensing the punchline.

"Total cheating asshole." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Juggling like five girls at once. So yeah, fuck relationships. Being single is way better."

She drained the rest of her beer and slammed the glass down. "Come on. We're singing."

Before I could protest, she grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the small stage.

---

The next hour blurred into off-key lyrics and forced laughter. Sophia belted out breakup anthems while I swayed beside her, trying to pretend my world wasn't crumbling.

She chose all the heartbroken songs—the ones about cheating boyfriends and finding your worth—and I let the music wash over me, hoping it would drown out the voice in my head that kept replaying Julian's cold dismissal.

Between songs, Sophia would squeeze my hand or pull me into an impromptu dance move, her eyes constantly checking to make sure I was still holding it together.

After our third song—a particularly dramatic rendition of "Since U Been Gone" that had Sophia doing air guitar solos—we stumbled back to our seats, flushed and slightly breathless.

My throat was raw from singing, and my face hurt from maintaining a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

That's when I noticed the group of guys at the bar, their eyes tracking us like wolves sizing up prey.

One approached first—mid-twenties, expensive watch, cocky smirk.

"Hey ladies, you two killed it up there." He leaned against our table. "Can we buy you a drink?"

"We're good, thanks." Sophia's tone was pleasant but firm.

"Come on, don't be like that." Another guy joined him, broader, reeking of whiskey. "We're just being friendly."

Sophia smiled, but her eyes went cold. "We appreciate the offer, but we're having a private conversation."

"Private, huh?" The first guy's smirk widened. "That's cute. You know what's not cute? Shaking your ass on stage all night, then acting too good to talk to us."

My spine stiffened. Under the table, Sophia's hand found mine and squeezed.

"We were singing," she said evenly. "Not performing for you."

"Everything's a performance for us if we're watching." The broader guy moved closer. "So how about we take this somewhere more comfortable? My buddy's got a suite at The Plaza. We could really party—all of us together."

*Multiple guys. A hotel suite. The implication was crystal fucking clear.*

My hand slid toward my purse, fingers instinctively positioning my keys between my knuckles. Those Krav Maga lessons from college were buried somewhere in my muscle memory. If these assholes didn't back off—

"Gentlemen," Sophia stood, her voice sharp as broken glass. "Let me be perfectly clear. We're not interested. Not now, not ever. So take your 'party' and shove it where the sun doesn't shine."

The first guy's smirk vanished. "Listen, bitch—"

"I'd be very careful about finishing that sentence."

The voice cut through the noise like a knife—cold, dangerous, utterly devoid of mercy.

I turned.

A man stood behind the group, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. He wasn't particularly tall—maybe six feet—but he radiated violence the way other people radiated warmth.

Lucas Reynolds.

I recognized him from old photos, but this version was different. Harder. Colder. The gentle, refined boy from Sophia's stories was gone, replaced by something predatory and unforgiving.

He had a buzz cut that emphasized the sharp angles of his face, a jagged scar cutting from his temple to his eyebrow. Single-lidded eyes—dark, flat, empty—swept over the drunk guys like they were insects beneath his notice.

Everything about him screamed danger. From the way he stood—perfectly balanced, weight distributed like someone who knew how to fight—to the casual set of his shoulders that suggested he could kill someone and sleep soundly afterward.

"Who the fuck are you?" The broader guy tried to puff up his chest.

Lucas didn't answer immediately. He just looked at him. I watched the guy's bravado crumble under that flat, assessing stare.

"Walk away," Lucas said quietly, his voice smooth as silk over steel. "Right now."

"Or what?" The first guy tried to sound tough, but his voice wavered.

Lucas smiled. It was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen—cold, empty, promising pain.

"Or I'll make sure the only thing you're fucking for the next six months is your own hand—after I break every finger on it."

The guys looked at each other. Whatever they saw in Lucas's face made the decision for them. They backed away, muttering excuses, and disappeared into the crowd.

Lucas watched them go with that same flat stare, then turned to us. His expression softened fractionally when his gaze landed on Sophia.

"Sophia." His voice was different when he said her name—rougher, weighted with history and barely leashed fury.

"Lucas." She stood frozen beside me, her hand gripping mine so tight it hurt.

The tension between them was suffocating. I'd heard about their broken engagement, about how her family had abandoned him when his empire collapsed.

Looking at them now, I could see the wreckage of something that had once been beautiful.

"You're back," Sophia managed, and I heard the tremor beneath the words.

"Yeah." Lucas's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "I'm back."

Silence stretched between them.

Then Lucas's gaze shifted to me, and I felt the full weight of that cold assessment. "You must be Elena."

I blinked. "How—"

"Julian mentioned you." Something flickered across his face—amusement? Pity? "Last time I saw him, he was racing out of our reunion dinner to handle some emergency."

*The night he left me at the hospital entrance.*

My throat tightened. "That was you. He said he had to meet someone who'd just come back."

Lucas nodded once, sharp and curt. "That was me."

He looked back at Sophia, and all that barely controlled violence focused on her like a laser. "We need to talk. Let's go."

Sophia's hand tightened on mine. "Lucas, I'm with Elena right now—"

"Elena will be fine." He pulled out his phone, already dialing. "I'll have Julian come get her."

"No!" The word burst out before I could stop it. Panic flared in my chest. "Please, don't call him. I don't want—"

But Lucas was already speaking into the phone, his eyes never leaving Sophia's face. "Sterling. Your wife's at that karaoke place on Bleecker. Come get her." He paused, listening. "Yeah, she's fine. Just get here."

He hung up and finally looked at me. For the first time, I saw something almost like sympathy in those flat eyes.

"You should worry about yourself more, Elena," he said coldly. "Before you worry about Sophia."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Please don't hurt her."

Lucas's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his gaze before he grabbed Sophia's wrist and yanked her away. "Worry about yourself first. Julian's on his way."