Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 81

Julian：POV

Blake arrived nine minutes later.

I heard the front door slam shut. His footsteps echoing through the mansion, quick and urgent against the marble floors.

"**Julian!**"

"Upstairs! Master bathroom!"

He appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. Took one look at Elena on the floor. At the blood pooling around us. At me cradling her limp body.

"**Jesus Christ.**"

He dropped his medical bag with a heavy thud and knelt beside me, his knee landing in a puddle of diluted blood and water.

"How long ago?"

"I don't know; when I got back home, I found her like that—wrists already slashed, lying there in the bathtub." My voice cracked on the last word. "The water was red. So fucking red."

He pulled back the towels I'd wrapped around her wrists. Examined the wounds with practiced efficiency, his fingers gentle but firm as he checked her pulse.

His jaw tightened. I saw the muscle twitch.

"These are deep. Vertical. She knew what she was doing." He looked up at me, and I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before—fear. "This wasn't a cry for help, Julian. She really wanted to die."

"Can you—"

"I can stitch her up. But Julian—" He looked at me, his eyes deadly serious. "She needs a hospital. A **psychiatric** hospital. This is beyond what I can handle here."

"No." Elena's voice was barely a whisper, so faint I almost missed it. "No hospital."

Blake glanced down at her, surprised she was conscious. Then back at me.

"She's lost a lot of blood. Her pulse is weak—maybe sixty beats per minute when it should be closer to eighty. If she crashes, if there's internal damage I can't see—"

"I'm not going." Elena's eyes were still closed, her lips barely moving. But her voice was firm, resolute. "If you take me to a hospital, I'll just try again. The moment I get out. I'll do it right next time."

Blake muttered something under his breath that sounded like "fucking hell" and "stubborn idiots."

Then he opened his bag and pulled out supplies. Gauze. Antiseptic. Sutures. A bottle of saline. His hands moved with the precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times.

"Hold her still," he said, threading a curved needle.

I did, gripping her shoulders gently as he began to work.

He cleaned the wounds first, the antiseptic making Elena's body tense despite her seeming detachment.

The chemical smell filled the bathroom, mixing with the metallic scent of blood.

Then he started stitching. Small, precise movements. The needle piercing her pale skin, pulling the edges of the wounds together.

Elena barely flinched. She just lay there in my arms, staring at nothing, like she wasn't even in her own body anymore.

I counted the stitches. Six on the left wrist. Seven on the right.

Each one felt like an accusation.

When he was done, he wrapped both her wrists in clean white bandages, winding them carefully, securing them with medical tape.

"She needs fluids," he said, not looking at me. "IV fluids would be best, but since we're apparently not going to a hospital—"

He pulled out a bottle of electrolyte solution from his bag. "Make her drink this. All of it. And antibiotics."

He handed me a bottle of pills. "Two now, then one every twelve hours for the next week. And **rest.**"

He finally met my eyes. "She needs to rest, Julian. Real rest. Not whatever the hell you've been doing to her."

"I'll take care of her."

Blake looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he stood. Walked to the sink. Washed his hands methodically, scrubbing away the blood under his nails.

I lifted Elena carefully, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She weighed nothing. Had she always been this light? Or had she lost weight this past week while I wasn't paying attention?

Carried her to the bedroom. The hallway seemed longer than usual, each step heavy. Laid her on the bed, on her side of the mattress that still smelled faintly of her lavender shampoo.

She immediately curled onto her side. Facing away from me. Drawing her knees up to her chest like a child.

I pulled the blanket over her, tucking it around her shoulders.

Her bandaged wrists lay on the pillow in front of her face. A constant reminder.

Blake was standing in the doorway when I came back out, his medical bag repacked, his expression grim.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's talk."

---

We went to the living room downstairs.

The house felt too big. Too empty. Too quiet.

Blake poured himself a whiskey from the bar cart. Downed it in one gulp. Poured another.

"What the **fuck,** Julian."

I sat down on the couch. Put my head in my hands. My shirt was still damp with bathwater and blood.

"I know."

"Do you?" He turned to look at me, and there was real anger in his voice now. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you just drove your wife to **suicide.**"

I flinched like he'd slapped me.

"I didn't—"

"You didn't **what?**" His voice was sharp. Cutting. "You didn't keep her locked up in this mansion like a prisoner? You didn't make her feel so fucking **trapped** that she tried to slit her wrists in your bathtub?"

"Blake—"

"She lost her baby a week ago, Julian. You brought her back here and played prison guard? Monitored her every move? Made her feel like she couldn't even breathe without your permission?"

"I was trying to **protect** her—"

"From **what?**" He stepped closer, his face flushed. "From the people who tried to kill her? Or from **herself?**" He gestured upstairs. "Because it looks like you failed on both counts."

I didn't answer.

Because I didn't know.

*Maybe both.*

*Maybe I was so terrified of losing her that I held on too tight.*

Blake sighed. The anger seemed to drain out of him.

He sat down beside me, the leather couch creaking under his weight.

"You need to let her go, man."

I looked up at him. "What?"

"Let her go." His voice was gentler now. Almost **pitying.** "This isn't love. This is **obsession.** And it's killing both of you."

"I can't—"

"**Why?**" He leaned forward. Met my eyes. "I always thought you were in love with Victoria. That Elena was just some girl who used a few tricks to trap you into marriage. But now..." He paused, studying my face. "Now I'm starting to think I was **wrong.**"

Something in my chest **cracked.**

"Don't talk about her like that."

"Like what?"

"Like she's a **bitch** who trapped me." My voice was low. Dangerous. My hands clenched into fists. "Don't you **dare** talk about her like that."

Blake raised his eyebrows, surprised by my vehemence.

"So you **do** care about her."

"Of course I **care**—"

"Then **let her go.**"

I stood up abruptly. Walked to the window. Stared out at the dark grounds of the estate.

"She asked me to," I said quietly. "While you were on your way here. She begged me. Said she couldn't do this anymore. And I—" My voice broke. "I told her I would. I promised her."

"Good."

"But I don't know if I **can.**"

Blake came to stand beside me. I could see our reflections in the dark glass. Two men who looked exhausted. Defeated.

"Why not?"

"Because—" I pressed my forehead against the cold glass. "Because I'm **afraid.**"

"Of what?"

"That if I let her go—if I lose her—I'll never get her back."

"The woman upstairs—she's already gone. You're just holding onto a ghost."

---

I went back to the bedroom an hour later.

Blake had left. The house was silent again.

Elena was still curled on her side. Eyes open now. Staring at the wall with that same empty expression.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her.

"Elena."

She didn't answer. Didn't even blink.

"I meant what I said." My voice was hoarse from not crying. "I'll let you go. I'll sign the divorce papers. I'll give you whatever you need—money, the apartment in the city, whatever. I won't follow you. I won't—I won't try to control you anymore."