Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 23

Elena: POV

He didn't answer my question about Victoria, and his silence sat on my chest like a boulder.

I forced a smile and asked, wrapping my arms around his neck despite the ache in my chest. "What if you've fallen in love with me?"

Julian froze. Just for a heartbeat. Then he shook his head, almost frantically, like he was trying to shake off something that had seeped too deep.

He leaned down, his mouth finding my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress. He sucked hard, making me gasp, then pulled back to look at me with those stormy gray eyes.

"Oh, I'm in love with you alright," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "In love with this body. The way you tremble beneath me—like some beautiful, fragile fucking flower." His hand cupped my face, thumb dragging across my lips. "But the rest of you? Yeah, don't flatter yourself."

The words hit me like a slap. I felt something inside me crack—small at first, like a hairline fracture in glass.

*Just the body. Never the person.*

A bitter smile twisted my lips. I knew exactly how to push his buttons now.

"You know what?" I said softly. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should stop waiting around for you to figure out what you want. Maybe I should just... move on."

His eyes narrowed. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means when we're divorced, I'm free to see whoever I want. Ethan's been clear about his interest. Maybe I'll finally give him a real chance."

I felt his entire body go rigid beneath me.

"Or maybe someone else," I added. "Someone who actually sees me as more than just a convenient body to fuck. Someone who—"

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my throat.

"Stop talking," he growled, his face inches from mine. His grip tightened slightly, just enough to make breathing difficult. "Stop fucking talking right now."

"Why?" I choked out, my pulse hammering against his palm. "Doesn't it feel good to hear the truth? That I'm not yours? That I never really was?"

"Elena, did you really think you were irreplaceable?"

"Let me go." My voice came out strangled, tears burning my eyes. "Let me go, Julian. Just... let me go."

For a moment, we stayed frozen like that—his hand on my throat, my tears spilling over, the car still gliding through Manhattan's dark streets.

Then he released me abruptly, like I'd burned him.

"Get out," he said coldly.

I blinked. "What?"

"Get. Out." He reached across me and shoved the door open. Cold October air rushed in. "Now."

"Julian, we're still moving—"

"I don't give a fuck." His voice was ice. "Get out of my car. Get out of my sight."

Before I could finish my sentence, the car screeched to a halt at the curb. Julian's hand was on my back, pushing me toward the open door.

"Julian—"

"Out!"

I stumbled onto the sidewalk, barely catching myself. My dress was still askew, my coat left behind in the car. I turned back but the door slammed shut in my face.

The Bentley pulled away, taillights disappearing into the night.

Leaving me standing there. Alone. On a street corner at eleven PM.

Without my phone. Without my purse. Without my fucking shoes.

---

I stood there shivering, my bare feet against the freezing pavement. Tears streamed down my face, and I wiped them away angrily.

*Fuck him. Fuck him for doing this.*

I glanced around, getting my bearings. There was a 24-hour bodega about half a block down, its neon sign flickering in the darkness.

I started walking, my feet screaming with each step. A few people passed me and stared.

Let them stare. I was past caring.

The bodega was bright and warm. The clerk looked up, then did a double-take when he saw my bare feet.

"Miss, are you—"

"I'm fine," I said quickly, moving toward the back where I'd spotted a rack of cheap flip-flops. "Just need shoes."

I grabbed a pair—ugly plastic things in neon pink—and headed to the register. As I passed a display, I grabbed a bottle of water too. My throat was dry, my mouth tasting like ash.

"That'll be eight dollars."

I reached for my purse, then remembered.

*Fuck.*

"I..." My voice cracked. "I don't have my wallet. I'm sorry. I'll just—"

"Here."

A hand reached past me, placing a twenty on the counter.

I turned.

Ethan stood there, concern written all over his face. And beside him—a young woman in a blazer, looking confused and slightly annoyed.

"Ethan?" I managed.

"Elena." His eyes scanned me—the wrinkled dress, the bare feet, the tear-stained face. "Jesus Christ. What happened?"

The clerk rang up the purchase silently, handing back change that Ethan waved off.

Ethan turned to the woman beside him. "Sarah, I'm really sorry, but something's come up. Can we raincheck?"

Sarah's eyes flicked between us, her expression cooling. "Sure. Whatever." She gave me one last look before heading toward the door. "See you Monday, Ethan."

The bell chimed as she left.

"Put the shoes on," Ethan said. "Then tell me what happened."

I slipped the flip-flops on. They were hideous. But at least my feet weren't on the ground anymore.

"She was just a colleague," Ethan said as we moved toward the door. "We grabbed coffee after a faculty meeting. That's all."

"You don't owe me an explanation," I said quietly.

"Maybe not. But I wanted to give you one anyway." He held the door open. "Elena, what the hell is going on? Did someone hurt you?"

"No. I just..." I wrapped my arms around myself. "I had a fight with someone. It's fine."

"It's clearly not fine." His hand hovered near my shoulder, then dropped. "Where's your coat? Your phone?"

"I don't have them."

"Jesus." He immediately shrugged off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders. "Here. And let me call you a car. You can't walk home like this."

"Ethan, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." He was already pulling out his phone. "But I'm going to anyway. Where do you need to go?"

I gave him an address three blocks from the mansion.

"Car's five minutes away," he said. "We can wait here."

We stood outside the bodega, the neon sign casting strange shadows. Ethan kept glancing at me, clearly wanting to ask more but holding back.

"Your feet must be freezing," he said finally.

"They're ugly. I know." A hollow laugh escaped me. "But they're better than nothing."

"Elena." His voice was soft. "I know you don't want to talk about it. But whoever did this to you—whoever left you out here like this—they don't deserve you."

Tears burned my eyes again. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand." He moved closer, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Because I've known you for years, and I've never seen you like this. And it's killing me."

His touch was gentle.

"Ethan, I can't—"

That's when I felt it—a searing gaze boring into me.

I turned my head slightly, scanning the street.

And there he was.

Julian.

Standing maybe twenty feet away, partially obscured by a parked car. His arms were crossed, his face in shadow. But I could feel the intensity of his gaze, the fury radiating off him in waves.

How long had he been there? Didn't he leave? Did he actually come back for me?

My breath caught.

"Elena?" Ethan followed my gaze. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just—" I stepped back from him, suddenly acutely aware of how close we were standing. Of his jacket on my shoulders. Of his hand still raised near my face.

Julian crossed the distance between us in long, purposeful strides. And before I could react, his fist connected with Ethan's jaw.

The sound was sickening—bone on bone, sharp and final.

Ethan stumbled backward, his phone clattering to the pavement. "What the fuck—"

"Ethan Blackwell, right?" Julian's voice was deadly calm as he grabbed Ethan's collar, yanking him upright. "You have a habit of touching married women? Or do you just prefer playing the hero?"

"Julian!" I grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back. "Stop it! He was just helping me!"