21. Elodie
Chapter 21
Elodie
T he leather seat beneath me felt cold and unfamiliar. I shifted, trying to find some semblance of comfort. Keaton's car was sleek, modern, the kind of luxury I wasn’t used to even though I had driven around in it the past couple of days. He hadn’t said a word since we left his home—our home—and the silence was making my skin itch.
I glanced at him, hoping he’d catch my eye and maybe break this quiet. His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. He stared straight ahead, jaw set in a way that made me wonder what was going on behind those piercing blue eyes.
“Where do you live?” His voice was clipped, almost mechanical. "Used to, I should say."
I hesitated before answering. “On the other side of town. Near the old mill.”
His grip tightened even more, if that was possible. He seemed to be battling some internal struggle. I wanted to ask what it was but didn’t dare.
The streets blurred past us, familiar landmarks appearing and disappearing too quickly for me to focus on any one thing.
“Are you okay?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
He glanced at me briefly, then back at the road. “Why do you ask?”
“You just seem... tense.”
A humorless laugh escaped him. “Tense doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. The silence settled back in, thicker than before. My stomach twisted in knots as we turned onto my street. My old street. The houses here were small and worn down, a stark contrast to his neighborhood. Keaton pulled up in front of my house and cut the engine.
“I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. They can’t annul the marriage. We’ve already consummated it. Everything is legal. You’re my wife.”
My mouth went dry, and I struggled to find my voice. The weight of his statement settled in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I hadn’t expected him to be so... adamant.
“They will not take you from me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart race.
I didn’t understand why, but his words brought a sense of comfort I hadn’t anticipated. Maybe it was the finality in his tone, the assurance that for once, someone was fighting for me, not against me.
“Okay,” I whispered, the word barely audible.
He reached out, placing a hand on my knee. The touch was both grounding and electrifying. “We’re in this together now,” he said softly, the hardness in his voice giving way to something gentler.
I nodded again, unable to trust my voice.
We stepped out of the car, the cold air biting against my skin. Keaton moved beside me, his arm wrapping protectively around my waist. It was strange, feeling someone’s warmth so close. I wasn’t used to it.
He led me up the steps to my old house, and I could hear the faint sounds of arguing inside. It was a familiar chorus—my stepsisters bickering over whose turn it was to do something now that I was gone. The noise grew louder as we stood there, waiting for someone to answer.
Keaton knocked firmly on the door. No one responded at first, the arguing continuing unabated. His grip on my waist tightened slightly, a silent promise of support.
Finally, the door swung open and Stephanie stood there, glaring at us with an expression that could curdle milk. Her eyes flicked between Keaton and me, clear disdain on her tight features.
“Well?” Keaton’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “You going to invite us in?”
Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but then closed it again. Her eyes narrowed, and I wondered if our stepmother had given her strict instructions not to speak out of turn.
I felt a pang of unease but stood firm beside Keaton. Stephanie’s hesitation hung in the air like a thick fog. She glanced over her shoulder briefly before stepping aside to let us in.
As we entered, the familiar scent of home—dust and cheap air freshener—washed over me. The bickering from my stepsisters ceased abruptly when they saw us. I braced myself for whatever would come next, drawing strength from Keaton's presence.
I led Keaton through the narrow hallway, my feet moving on autopilot toward the dining room—or what we called the dining room. In reality, it was a small, cramped kitchen with a rickety table squeezed into one corner. The house felt different with him here. It was like seeing it through a new lens, one that highlighted every crack in the plaster, every faded piece of wallpaper.
The linoleum floor creaked under our weight, and the dim light overhead flickered as if protesting our presence. I noticed the mismatched chairs around the table, each one a relic from garage sales or hand-me-downs from neighbors. The chipped paint on the cabinets seemed more glaring now, and the lingering smell of last night's dinner—burnt onions and something vaguely resembling chicken—hung in the air.
I wondered what he thought of this place, so different from his world of luxury and opulence.
My stepmother entered the kitchen then, her lips puckered in that perpetual scowl she wore so well. Her eyes narrowed as they took in the sight of us standing there together. She had an uncanny ability to make you feel small with just a look. Her fury was palpable, rolling off her in waves that seemed to darken the already dim room.
She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorframe as if to block our escape. “What’s this about?” Her voice was icy, dripping with disdain.
I felt Keaton’s grip tighten on my waist. My heart pounded in my chest as I met her gaze head-on, drawing strength from his unwavering presence beside me.
“Just wanted to let you know that Elodie won’t be coming back here,” Keaton said calmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
My stepmother’s eyes flicked to him then back to me. “And who are you to decide that?”
He stepped forward slightly, not breaking eye contact. “I’m her husband.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. For a moment, I thought my stepmother might explode from sheer rage. But instead, she took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring.
“This isn’t over,” she hissed finally, her voice low and venomous.
"Where's dinner?" Keaton asked, his voice slicing through the tension like a knife. "I specifically said we were coming for dinner."
My stepmother's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a disdainful sneer. "We don't answer to you," she snapped.
I tensed immediately. That tone always signaled trouble. My stepmother’s words had a way of escalating situations, and I knew how volatile she could become.
Keaton didn’t miss a beat. “Excuse the fuck out of me, but I came here for a reason.” His voice was hard, unyielding. “I know you wanted to sell her off to some asshole, but that's not happening. She's mine now. However,” he continued, a calculated calmness seeping into his tone, “I also understand that as your new son-in-law, I need to take care of my new family.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his checkbook, the movement smooth and confident. “I'll write you a check, and this goes away. No confronting her. No badmouthing her. You get what you want; I get my wife.”
Marion’s face twisted in shock, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“Now,” he said with finality, “you got a pen? How much?”
My voice came out barely above a whisper. “Forty-two thousand.”
Marion’s eyes gleamed with sudden greed, her shock morphing into cold calculation. “Actually,” she said slowly, savoring the moment, “it’ll be seventy-five thousand.”
Keaton’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t falter. He simply nodded and began writing the check.
My mouth dropped open. “No, that’s too much?—”
“And who are you to say that, you selfish girl?” she snapped, her eyes flashing with anger. “We arranged a marriage for you only for you to run off and marry someone else. Don’t you think we should be compensated for the trauma you caused?”
“You can’t be serious,” I said, my voice trembling.
“How dare you talk back to me,” she hissed. “I wish you had married William. He would have punished you for such insolence.”
Keaton stepped forward, his presence dominating the room. “I’ll give you fifty,” he said, ripping out the check. “But if you mention his name in my presence again, I’ll ruin you. And don’t you ever, ever insinuate my wife should be punished for standing up to you. I know women like you. You’re a cunt of the highest order. You don’t deserve her.”
She arched a brow, her lips curling into a sneer. “And you do? You may be filthy rich, Keaton Douglas, but as far as I hear, you’re the greatest disappointment to your father—more than his two bankruptcies. Even more than your mother’s death.”
Before I even knew what I was doing, my hand flew through the air and connected with Marion’s cheek with a resounding slap. The same way Marion had slapped me countless times.
Her eyes widened in fury.
“You can’t speak to my husband that way,” I said softly but firmly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of my words hanging in the air like a storm cloud about to burst. Keaton's hand found mine.
Marion’s face twisted in rage, and she lifted her arm, ready to retaliate.
Keaton grabbed Marion's wrist before she could strike me. His grip was firm, unyielding. “You think I give a shit you're a woman?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “Touch one hair on her head and I'll break every bone in your hand. Now, take the fucking check before I decide you owe me.”
She snatched the check from his hand; her face twisted with barely concealed fury. Her eyes flickered between us, calculating her next move. She clenched her teeth but didn’t argue.
Keaton turned to me, his expression softening slightly. “Get whatever shit you want,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I'll be down here, waiting with your stepfamily. No one is going to follow her, got it? You'll be staying with me. And when she has everything, that's it. We're gone.”
My stepmother's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t protest further. She knew when she was outmatched, at least for now.
I nodded and hurried up the stairs to my room. The familiar creaks of the floorboards beneath my feet echoed in the empty hallway. My room was small and sparse, filled with secondhand furniture and memories I was eager to leave behind.
I grabbed my old backpack from the closet and began stuffing it with the few belongings that mattered: my worn copy of Pride and Prejudice , a small photo album with pictures of my mother and father, some clothes, including my mother’s green dress, and a few personal items that held sentimental value.
As I packed, my mind raced with thoughts of what lay ahead. I took one last look around the room, trying to imprint every detail in my memory. Despite everything, this had been my sanctuary in a house that never felt like home.
With a deep breath, I slung the backpack over my shoulder and headed back downstairs. Keaton stood in the entryway, his presence commanding and reassuring all at once.
“I’m ready,” I said quietly.
He nodded and placed a hand on my back, guiding me toward the door.
“You’ll regret this,” Marion spat finally, her voice trembling with barely contained fury.
“Maybe,” I replied, my voice stronger than I felt inside. “But at least it’ll be on my terms.”
Keaton guided me out of the house. As we stepped back into the cold night air, I felt a strange mix of fear and exhilaration. For once in my life, I had stood up to Marion and defended myself—and Keaton—instead of cowering in fear.
As we walked back to the car, his arm wrapped around me protectively. Despite everything, for the first time in a long time, I felt a glimmer of hope that things might finally change for the better.
Keaton opened the door for me before getting in himself. I slipped into the passenger seat, still reeling from the confrontation with my stepmother.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why give her so much?”
“So she’ll stay away,” he replied, staring straight ahead. His voice was gruff, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “A few thousand dollars doesn’t mean shit if she’s not hanging around you.” He glanced at me then, his eyes softening just a fraction. “Why did you slap her?”
“She was being unnecessarily cruel,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “What she said about your mother…” My words trailed off, the memory of Marion’s venomous tone still fresh in my mind.
Keaton scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “My father is much worse.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “You don’t deserve that.”
He scoffed again, shaking his head slightly. “You know,” he drawled, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You looked so fucking good slapping that bitch for me.”
My heart jumped at his words, and I glanced at him, surprised by the compliment.
Before I could process what was happening, Keaton turned off the main road and took us down a narrow path. The car bumped along until we reached a hidden alcove surrounded by trees. He killed the engine and the sudden silence felt almost deafening.
“Where are we?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I come here to think,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto mine. “But right now, I brought you here so I could fuck you.”
Before I could react, he pulled me into a kiss, his lips crashing against mine with an intensity that left me breathless.