Chapter 25 Elena
Elena
The house is too quiet when Sarah isn’t here.
Even with the windows cracked and the quiet rustle of the late autumn breeze through the trees, there’s an unnatural stillness to Highcourt Hall. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to creak or break or snap.
I curl tighter into the velvet chaise in the sunroom, an open book half forgotten on my lap. I’m barely reading, have been struggling for the last thirty minutes. My eyes, instead, have been focusing on the woods outside the glass, where the shadows move as the sun slowly lowers in the sky.
Part of me wants to go sit in the corner chair of Harry’s office instead of hanging out in here. But he’s mid-meeting, bogged down with work, and I don’t want to cause more problems by walking in unannounced.
For days now, I’ve had the uneasy sense that I’m being watched. Not by staff, not by Matthew, not Grace or Liam or even Harry. The feeling slithers along my spine, lingering just long enough to make me scan over my shoulder constantly. And it started the morning that person was in my cottage.
I haven’t seen George since, at least not really.
I’d seen him outside the west wing two weeks ago, far enough away that he couldn’t bother me, leaning over the back deck and smoking something.
Last week, I caught the scent of his cologne in the kitchen when I walked in, but the house was silent and there wasn’t a sign of him around.
But he hasn’t spoken to me. He hasn’t said a word.
I can’t work out if he’s waiting.
I close the book and push myself up out of the chair, tossing the throw blanket over the back of the chair. I should eat, at least — take my mind off things so I don’t inevitably annoy Harry before he’s finished with work.
I’m halfway down the corridor, my bare feet silent on the floor, when I feel it again. That prickling sensation, like breath on my neck. Or eyes.
I turn.
The hallway is empty behind me, but the hairs on my arms don’t settle.
The kitchen is just ahead at the end of the hallway, and I march on, just wanting to get somewhere I feel comfortable. I step through the archway—
“Jesus—”
George leans against the kitchen counter like he’s been waiting hours, like he belongs there, in a pair of plaid joggers and a white t-shirt. I startle badly enough that I have to grab the doorway, my hand coming to my chest.
He’s holding a half-empty glass of something clear and brown, maybe whiskey, maybe rum. His hair is neat, but his shirt is rumpled, stained at the collar. He stares me down, his eyes bloodshot.
“Boo,” he says, a grin spreading across his cheeks.
I don’t move. “You scared me,” I grumble, my hand sliding down my stomach. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be on this side of the house.”
“Whatever I want,” he says, tilting the glass like he’s giving a toast. “Existing. Breathing. Watching my ex-fiancée play house with Daddy.”
He takes a sip, smirking.
“Am I supposed to call you Mom now?”
I shift my stance, my heels firm on the floor, stabling. I don’t let his ridiculous question make me shiver — but my heart hammers like a drum. I don’t let it show. “You’re drunk.”
“No shit. Wanna join me?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he mutters, pushing off the counter.
I take a step back instinctively. “Don’t.”
His grin falters. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t come any closer. Just… sleep it off somewhere. Please.”
“Sleep it off?” he echoes, rolling his eyes. “You sound like him. Next, you’ll be handing me a glass of scotch and talking about reputation.”
My jaw steels. “I’m asking you nicely—”
“Nicely?” he mutters, his brows knitting. His voice rises. “Nicely?”
He throws the rest of his drink into his mouth, swallows, and drops the glass onto the floor. It doesn’t shatter — just bounces off the tile before rolling to a stop near my foot.
“You were fucking desperate enough to beg him to marry you,” he spits, stepping closer. “You couldn’t wait for me to come back. You didn’t want to.”
“You left on our wedding day,” I snap.
“I was testing you.”
“That’s just a blatant lie—”
“I wanted to see if you’d chase me. If you’d fight. If you’d wait,” he seethes, taking a step toward me.
“No, you didn’t. You just wanted out. You can’t keep changing your story.”
His gaze hardens. “You were mine first.”
My veins ice over, the world tilting beneath me. “Excuse me?”
“You were promised to me. I was fourteen, you were sixteen. Remember that?” he asks, taking another step. “You were mine before he ever looked twice at you. You were mine before it was legal for you to be his.”
“I was never yours,” I hiss. “I was an arrangement. A pawn, a way to funnel wine into your family’s hotels. And you threw me away.”
“I owned you.” His hand lashes out before I can react.
Fingers wrap around my wrist, hard, the sudden pain jolting me back to my senses.
I twist away, but he yanks me closer, grabbing my other arm to pull me in.
He’s not steady in the slightest, he reeks of liquor, and his eyes give me far too much pause — they’re glassy but focused, locked directly on my face.
“I don’t get it. He’s into you? After you were promised to me?
I’ve seen you in those sundresses, seen your stomach and your thighs. He actually wants that?”
My skin crawls as his eyes dip south, looking at my stomach again, seeing how it’s grown. Protective instincts flood me, and I gently try to pry my wrists free, enough that it hopefully doesn’t set him off. “Let me go, George.”
“I could take you right here,” he rasps, his lips quirking up grotesquely as his fingers tighten. “I could remind you who you were meant to belong—”
My knee jerks up before he can finish that sentence, aimed for his groin, but he blocks it with a well-timed stumble, pushing me back into the wall behind me. My breath wheezes out. “Stop—Christ, I’m pregnant—”
“Doesn’t matter.” His answering grin is all teeth.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Treat me with a bit more respect, Mommy. I’m your husband’s son.”
“Then act like it!” I shout, shoving him hard.
He doesn’t budge.
I do it again, harder this time, but his hand grabs my face, sloppy and rough with his fingers digging into my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “I could make you forget everything,” he smirks. “The wedding, the chaos, him.”
“I don’t want to forget him, you fucking lunatic,” I spit. “I love him.”
His expression shifts, something unhinged flashing in his eyes. The rage crests suddenly, violently, and he pushes me back against the wall hard enough to knock the wind fully out of my lungs.
I twist a wrist free and swing.
The punch lands solid, knuckles crunching into cartilage. A sharp yelp tears from him as he stumbles back, clutching his face as blood gushes from his nose, splattering down his white shirt.
“Fucking bitch!”
My hands shake violently as I take a step back, then another, and another, spinning on my heel out of adrenaline and rage and something else I don’t have a name for. My knuckles hurt, my arm is trembling, and I’m not entirely sure where I’m heading, just know I need to get away—
Pounding footsteps race in my direction, but not from the kitchen.
Harry barrels around the far end of the hall, eyes scanning the space like a hunting dog, still dressed from his meeting. He sees George slumped against the wall behind me, shirt stained with blood, groaning.
Then he sees me.
His eyes flick to my knuckles, to the blood there, to the hand covering my stomach, to my rapidly rising and falling chest. “Elena?” he asks, looking back and forth between me and his son.
I nod once. No words, just confirmation, and Harry surges forward. Fury brews like a storm behind his eyes as he heads straight past me, toward George. I lunge and grab his sleeve. “Don’t.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“I mean it. Please.”
He stops, his muscles taut like rope. “What happened?”
“He invaded my space,” I say softly, trying not to make the situation worse. “He pushed me into the wall. I handled it.”
“He could’ve hurt the baby,” he growls, his jaw ticking.
“But he didn’t, Harry.”
“I should drag him out by his collar. I should—”
“Please,” I say, gripping his arm harder. “He’s drunk. He’s angry. He’ll just run again, you know that. If you do anything else, he’ll just be angrier at me.”
“He’s not a child.”
“I know,” I swallow. “But he’s still your son.”
He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to calm himself down, trying to push back some of the anger. I can’t help but worry just how much of that he heard — if he’d heard my admission or just the resulting commotion and shouting.
“How much did you hear?” I ask hesitantly, watching him warily.
He doesn’t lower his hands to look at me. He’s still shaking, still brimming with fury, trying to breathe. “Just voices,” he mutters. “Raised voices. Heard it was you and came running.”
My stomach knots. Part of me is glad he didn’t hear it, glad that my confession isn’t clouding his judgment and anger.
The way I said it, unguarded and burning, isn’t how I want him to know — especially not in the middle of a nightmare, not when his drunk kid just tried to attack his wife, not when his song is bleeding and the air feels thick with ghosts.
So I don’t repeat it. Not right now.