Chapter 54 - Stella
Stella
Amonth earlier, the plan was still just pieces—diary entries, flashcards, and late-night whispers. Nothing concrete. Nothing sharp enough to cut.
But Donovan showing up, laying his guilt at my feet, changed everything. He saw the journal. The cards. He knows now I’m not mourning the life we should’ve had—I'm documenting the one he ruined.
The second he left, I sent a text to Elaine.
Me: Donovan was here. The time is now.
Homewrecker: What do I need to do?
Me: Nothing. Just sit back and watch. His world will collapse on its own.
I packaged the file, every detail in black and white, and sent it to every college where he’d dared to apply. By the end of the week, they all had his undoing in their hands. Every affair, every betrayal, every misuse of his position. From what I could see, not a single school wanted to touch him.
Mac told me later about their conversation—how he told Donovan I was happy, that I’d moved on. I know it put him in a terrible spot, forced to choose sides. But I also know this much: when it comes to me, there isn’t a thing Mac wouldn’t do.
Once I sent the file, I texted Elaine back.
Me: The file is sent.
Homewrecker: Meet me at Cedar Oak Lake.
Me: Okay
I hold the phone against my chest, my head resting against the back of my desk chair.
For a long minute, I don’t move, the silence in the office pressing in around me.
Then I push up, cross to the closet, and tug out a simple sundress.
Something easy. Something that doesn’t look like plotting.
I part my hair into two long braids, the kind I haven’t worn in years, and catch my reflection in the mirror.
Softer. Not the wife or the strategist—just me.
By the time I pull up, Elaine’s already there, leaning against her car, arms folded like she’s been waiting. Her eyes sweep over me once, sharp and quick, but linger long enough that my pulse stutters.
“You don’t usually dress up for me,” she says. Light, but not dismissive.
“Maybe I wasn’t dressing up for you.”
Her mouth curves, slow and knowing. “Then who?”
The air hums between us, all static and implication. We walk together down toward the lake, not saying much, but the silence isn’t empty—it’s charged. Every glance feels like it lasts too long, every brush of her shoulder too deliberate to be an accident.
When we reach the waterline, she bends to skip a flat stone. I watch her wrist flick, the smooth arc of the rock, and when she straightens, she catches me staring.
“You’re staring,” she says, softer this time.
I don’t deny it.
We walk the path along the lake, our footsteps crunching in the gravel. The air smells like pine and water mixed with her scent of jasmine and honey, and for once, I don’t feel like filling the silence.
Elaine breaks it first. “You know what I don’t get?”“What?”
She glances at me, then away again, almost too casual. “How can you carry all that steel in you and still show up here in braids and a sundress? Like you’re two people at once.”I huff out a laugh. “And which one do you prefer?”
Her eyes cut back to me, sharp and unflinching. “Both. Together. That’s what makes you impossible to look away from.”
The words sink into my chest, heavy and electric all at once. For a beat, I can’t breathe. “You’ve been watching me for a long time,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “Longer than you think.”
The way she says it—like a confession but not an apology—makes my pulse stumble. I stop walking without realizing it, and she stops too, close enough that her presence feels like a spark against my skin.
Her gaze drifts, deliberate, down to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. “You’re staring again,” she murmurs.
“So are you.”
It’s enough. She leans in first, slow, deliberate, like she’s daring me to stop her. I don’t. My breath snags, my chest tightens—and then her mouth is on mine.
It isn’t soft. It’s desperate, heated, like we’ve been holding back too long.
Her hand is on my jaw, pulling me closer, and I grip her waist without thinking, fingers digging into the thin fabric of her dress.
The kiss deepens fast, her mouth opening against mine like she’s been starving for this.
My back hits a tree before I realize she’s moved me, bark biting through the cotton of my dress, her body flush with mine.
I should stop. God, I should stop. But when her teeth catch my bottom lip, a broken sound escapes me, and I fist the braid hanging over my shoulder just to ground myself. Her palm drags down my arm, slow and claiming, until her fingers lace with mine and pin them against the tree.
The world narrows to heat and pressure, to the press of her thigh between mine, to the sharp edge of knowing exactly how far we’re crossing. I can feel myself trembling, not from fear but from how much I don’t want to pull away.
When she finally does, it’s like surfacing too fast. She rests her forehead against mine, breath ragged, lips still brushing as she whispers, low and unsteady, “We’re playing with fire.”My voice comes out just as rough. “Then let it burn.”
Elaine’s hand finds mine as we head back toward the cars, tentative at first, then steady. The night air off the lake bites at my skin, but her fingers are warm, grounding, and I don’t let go.
We reach the cars, her body is against her door, and I am standing inches from her.
She tilts her head back and studies the sky.
“I’ve always loved the night. The way the stars fall into perfect constellations.
Dippers, animals… even an infinity symbol, if you look long enough. Beautiful, bright, endless.”
When I lower my gaze, she isn’t looking at the sky anymore. She’s looking at me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I answer without looking, already bracing for Ansel’s voice.
“Stel.” Breathless. Too quick. “Blythe’s in labor.
They’re taking her to Agave Hills General.
It’s early—”The world tilts. My grip on Elaine’s hand tightens.
“What? She’s not due for weeks.” “I know. Just get here.”
I can’t breathe, can’t think. The words splinter in my chest. Elaine slips the phone from my shaking fingers and ends the call for me. “Let me drive.” Her tone isn’t a question. It’s calm, firm, the anchor I don’t have right now. I just nod and let her steer me toward her car.
The hospital waiting room is too white, too cold.
I pace the tile while my sandals slap with each turn, chewing my lip until I taste copper.
My head is full of worst-case scenarios, every one louder than the last. “Widow,” Elaine’s voice cuts through.
She doesn’t try to stop me, doesn’t tell me it’s fine—just brushes her hand across my shoulder, fingers grazing my skin through the thin strap of my dress.
The contact is small, almost nothing. But it keeps me standing.
My chest eases just enough to breathe again.
The waiting room clock ticks too loudly, every second stretching longer than the last. Elaine’s hand still rests on my shoulder, steady, keeping me tethered.
When Ansel bursts through the doors with two coffees, her eyeliner smudged like she ran here, she takes one look at me, then at Elaine. Her mouth presses into a line, but she doesn’t say a word. She just hands me a cup and drops into the chair beside me.
A few minutes later, Elaine excuses herself—something about checking in with the nurse’s desk. The moment she’s out of earshot, Ansel leans in, her voice low. “You like her.”
It isn’t a question.
I stare down at the coffee in my hands, the ripples shaking with my grip. My throat tightens, and for a beat, I can’t answer. Finally, I whisper, “Yeah. I do.”
The words feel heavier than I meant them, but true all the way down. Ansel doesn’t push, doesn’t tease. She just nods, eyes softer than usual. “Then be careful, Slay Muffin.”
Hours later, when the doctor finally says Blythe’s stable and the baby’s here, relief floods me so fast my knees nearly give. I sink into the hard plastic chair, exhausted, grateful, and wrung out. I should feel steady again.
But then my phone buzzes.
Donovan: I’ll sign the papers. But don’t think for a second you’re walking away without giving me what I deserve.
The words land like ice water in my veins. My chest locks tight, and I stare at the screen until the letters blur.
Elaine is still beside me, quiet, close. Yet all I can hear is Donovan’s voice in those words—the promise that this isn’t over.
My leg bounces uncontrollably. Elaine notices. Her fingers slip between mine, steady, grounding. “Stella,” she murmurs, searching my face. “What is it?”
I glance down at our hands laced together—warmth, peace—before handing her the phone.
Her eyes flick over the screen. Her jaw tightens. “Fuck him. He’s not getting a goddamn thing from you.”
Tears sting before I can stop them. “Elaine… can you just take me home?”
Elaine doesn’t argue. She just nods once, sharply, and guides me out. Her hand never leaves mine as we walk through the sterile halls, down into the night.
The drive is quiet, but not empty. Her presence fills the silence. I stare out the window, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest. By the time we pull into my driveway, my hands are trembling.
Inside, I drop onto the couch like my legs might give out. Elaine sets my keys on the counter, shrugs off her jacket, and studies me with that lawyer’s stare that sees too much.
“What the hell is going on between us?” The words rip out before I can stop them.
My voice is rough, too loud in the still house.
“Because this—” I gesture between us, between our joined shadows on the wall, the way she came straight here, the way she grounds me—“it's not just plotting anymore. It’s not just… revenge.”
Elaine doesn’t flinch. She steps closer, slow and deliberate, until she’s standing over me. “You want me to name it?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Because I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it.”