Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 66

**Elena: POV**

The texts started coming in less than ten minutes after I hit send.

Ethan: [What do you mean you can't go?]

Ethan: [Elena, this is a huge opportunity. You can't just throw it away.]

Ethan: [We talked about this. You were excited.]

I stared at my phone, sitting cross-legged on the couch with one of Julian's oversized shirts hanging off my shoulder. My hand drifted to my stomach.

Elena: [I know. I'm sorry. Something came up. I can't leave New York right now.]

The reply was instant.

Ethan: [Something? Or someone?]

My stomach clenched.

Ethan: [Is this about him? About Julian?]

Ethan: [Elena, are you seriously giving up your career for a man who doesn't even respect you?]

Ethan: [You told me yourself he treats you like shit. Why are you doing this?]

The texts kept coming, one after another. Each one sharper than the last.

This wasn't like Ethan. The man I knew was measured, controlled. He never pushed. Never demanded.

But these messages... they felt desperate. Raw.

Ethan: [Just tell me the truth. Did he convince you to stay? Did he threaten you?]

Ethan: [Because I swear to God, Elena, if he's manipulating you—]

I put the phone face-down on the coffee table.

My chest felt tight. Guilty, maybe. Or just... overwhelmed.

I knew Ethan cared. Maybe more than he should. But this intensity—it scared me.

Elena: [Ethan, I appreciate everything you've done for me. But I need to figure out my own life right now. I'm sorry.]

I hit send before I could second-guess myself.

The phone buzzed again immediately, but I didn't look.

Instead, I pulled my knees to my chest and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the way my stomach churned—half morning sickness, half guilt.

---

**Ethan: POV**

I was three whiskeys deep when her text came through.

The bar was loud—too loud. Dave from the English department was slapping my shoulder, laughing about something I hadn't heard. Around me, the other teachers were getting progressively louder, their ties loosened and cheeks flushed.

"Come on, Blackwell," Mike said, grinning. "You're telling me a guy like you doesn't have a girl waiting at home?"

"Yeah," Dave chimed in. "You're what—thirty-two? Loaded, good-looking—"

"The guy looks like he walked off a runway," someone else added.

Laughter erupted around the table.

I forced a smile, but it tasted like ash.

"I've got someone," I said quietly.

The table went silent.

"Wait—what?" Mike leaned forward. "You're seeing someone?"

"Not exactly." I downed the rest of my whiskey, welcoming the burn. "But there's... someone. And I'm waiting for her."

Dave snorted. "Waiting? Man, that's pathetic. If she's not with you, she's not interested."

My jaw clenched.

"Maybe she just needs time," I muttered.

"Time?" Mike shook his head. "Bro, no woman is worth waiting for."

Before I could respond, Dave whistled sharply. A group of waitresses appeared—young, pretty, dressed in tight black dresses.

"Gentlemen," Dave announced, "pick your poison."

The guys immediately started flirting. One brunette with red lipstick caught my eye—not because I wanted her, but because for a split second, her profile reminded me of Elena.

Same delicate jaw. Same way she tucked her hair behind her ear.

"That one," Dave said, practically shoving the girl into the booth beside me. "She's perfect for you."

The girl smiled up at me, all sultry eyes and glossy lips.

"Hi," she purred.

I barely glanced at her. Instead, I pulled out my phone.

Elena: [Ethan, I appreciate everything you've done for me. But I need to figure out my own life right now. I'm sorry.]

My vision blurred.

Sorry.

She was fucking *sorry*.

The whiskey roared through my veins, hot and vicious.

My fingers moved before I could stop them.

Ethan: [What happened to "I need to do this for myself"? What happened to "I deserve better"?]

Ethan: [Or was that all bullshit? Did you go running back to him the second he snapped his fingers?]

Ethan: [Answer me, Elena. Why won't you go to Milan?]

I hit send and immediately started typing again.

My phone buzzed. Not from Elena.

From Dave: [Dude, you good?]

I looked up. The whole table was staring.

"Sorry," I muttered, shoving my phone away. "Work shit."

The brunette beside me shifted closer, her hand landing on my thigh.

"You look tense," she whispered. "Want to go somewhere quieter?"

I should've said no.

Should've paid my tab and left.

But the alcohol was buzzing under my skin, and when I looked at her again, I saw Elena's eyes. Elena's lips.

Fuck it.

"Upstairs," I said roughly.

---

The bar had a second floor—private rooms for VIP guests.

The girl led me down a dim hallway, her hips swaying. Behind us, I heard Dave's voice: "Get some, Blackwell!"

She unlocked a door and pulled me inside.

The room was small—just a bed, a couch, and low lighting that made everything look hazy.

The girl turned to me, biting her lip. "So... what do you like?"

I didn't answer.

Instead, I grabbed my phone again.

Still nothing from Elena.

*Fuck.*

The girl stepped closer, her hands sliding up my chest. "Hey. I'm right here."

I looked down at her.

In the dim light, she really did look like Elena. Same brown hair. Same delicate features.

Close enough.

I kissed her.

It was rough—too rough. I could taste the whiskey on my own tongue, bitter and wrong.

She gasped against my mouth, her hands fumbling with my shirt buttons.

"Slow down," she breathed.

But I didn't want slow. I wanted to forget.

I pulled her toward the bed, my hands already tugging at her dress.

She laughed—nervous, breathy—and pushed me down onto the mattress.

"Let me," she whispered.

Her fingers worked at my belt, then my zipper. Her mouth closed around me, warm and wet.

"Shit," I hissed.

She hummed, taking me deeper.

I fisted my hands in the sheets, trying to lose myself in it.

But the words were hollow. Performative.

*Elena would never—*

I shoved the thought away.

The girl stood, pulling her dress over her head. Her breasts were full, her waist narrow—objectively attractive.

But she wasn't *her*.

She straddled me, and I grabbed her hips, flipping her onto her back.

"Hey—" she started, but I cut her off with another kiss.

My hands roamed her body, but it felt mechanical. Disconnected.

She moaned beneath me, arching into my touch.

I lined myself up and pushed inside her.

She cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders.

I moved roughly, chasing something I couldn't name. Release. Oblivion. Anything to stop the ache in my chest.

"Oh fuck," she whimpered. "Yes—just like that—"

But all I could think about was Elena.

Elena's smile. Elena's voice. Elena's goddamn *husband* touching her the way I should be.

The thought made me thrust harder, desperate to drown it out.

"Fuck—I'm close—" the girl gasped.

Her body tensed beneath me, and she came with a sharp cry.

And then—finally—I followed, my vision going white.

For a split second, I forgot.

But when my vision cleared, I looked down—

And saw a stranger.

"Get out," I said hoarsely.

She blinked up at me, confused. "What?"

"Get. Out."

Her face flushed red. "Are you serious?"

"Now."

She scrambled off the bed, grabbing her dress. "You're a fucking asshole," she spat, slamming the door behind her.

I collapsed onto the mattress, my chest heaving.

Silence pressed in around me, thick and suffocating.

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling.

And then—before I could stop myself—I slammed my fist into the mattress. Once. Twice.

"Fuck!" I roared.

My phone buzzed.

I grabbed it, hoping—praying—it was her.

But it was just Dave: *You alive up there?*

I threw the phone across the room.

It hit the wall and clattered to the floor.

I sat up, running my hands through my hair, my breath ragged.

"What the fuck does he have that I don't?" I whispered to the empty room.