Chapter 3

Elinor Frost POV:

The piercing ring of my phone snatched me from the deepest sleep I' d had in years. I fumbled for it, heart hammering against my ribs, convinced it was Braden, furious about my social media post. But it wasn't. It was an unknown number. My brow furrowed. I glanced at the clock. 3 AM.

I answered cautiously. "Hello?"

"Elinor? It's Guy. Your brother." His voice was rough, laced with an urgency that instantly put me on edge. "Are you okay? I just saw Destany Aguilar's post and... yours. What the hell happened?"

My initial relief that it wasn't Braden was quickly replaced by a fresh wave of dread. Guy knew. My brother, my protector, the one person who had always seen through Braden's polished facade, now knew the full extent of my public humiliation.

"I'm fine, Guy," I said, trying to infuse my voice with a confidence I didn't feel. "Braden and Destany were putting on a show at the party. I just... I saw it."

"A show?" Guy scoffed, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Elinor, that was no show. He had his hands all over her, and she was practically sitting in his lap. And your post... You deleted everything. Is this it? Are you finally done?"

His words, blunt and honest, ripped through the fragile peace I had found. "Yes, Guy. I'm done." The words felt heavy, but also liberating.

"Good," he said, and I could almost hear the fierce relief in his voice. "Because I'm coming over. And we're getting you out of there. You deserve so much more than that bastard."

Before I could reply, a loud crash echoed from downstairs. My blood ran cold. It wasn't Guy. It was someone else. Someone in the house.

"Guy, I have to go," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Someone's here."

I hung up, my fingers trembling. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst through my chest. The house was silent again, save for the frantic beat of my own pulse in my ears. I slowly, cautiously, slipped out of bed. My bare feet barely made a sound on the plush carpet.

As I crept down the stairs, a figure emerged from the shadows of the living room. It was Braden. He stood there, disheveled, his expensive suit rumpled, a wild look in his eyes. He reeked of alcohol and a desperate kind of anger.

"Elinor," he slurred, his voice low and menacing. He lurched forward, grabbing my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. His grip was bruising, painful. His face was a mask of fury, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed into slits.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snarled, pulling me closer. His hot breath on my face reeked of whisky. "Deleting our photos? Posting cryptic messages? Do you know how much trouble you've caused tonight?"

He was shaking me, his grip tightening. I felt like a rag doll, utterly powerless against his strength. The memory of his past rages, his coldness, his casual cruelty, flooded my mind. I was nothing more than an object to him, a possession. The disgust welled up inside me, a bitter bile that climbed my throat. I recoiled, instinctively pulling away from his touch, a shiver of revulsion running down my spine.

Braden' s eyes, glazed with alcohol, flickered with a raw, ugly hate. "Don't look at me like that, Elinor," he growled, his voice thick with accusation. "Don't pretend you're disgusted. You're just angry because you thought you had me. You thought you'd finally caught me." He scoffed, a sneer twisting his lips. "All these years, playing the innocent, suffering wife. But I know you, Elinor. You're just as calculating as the rest of them. Playing the victim to get what you want. Did you think I wouldn't find out about your little call to Grandfather? Trying to use his 'concern' to pressure me?" He mimicked Grandfather Harmon' s stern tone, a cruel mockery. "Congratulations, darling. You've certainly stirred the pot."

My eyes burned, but I refused to cry. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I wouldn't let him see the pain he inflicted. I swallowed the sob that threatened to erupt, clamping my jaw shut. My stomach churned, a dull ache beginning to spread.

I hated him. I truly, deeply hated him. And the realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.

I remembered a time when his touch was soft, when his laugh was genuine, when his eyes held warmth instead of contempt. We had known each other since childhood, our families intertwined by business and social circles. He had been the charming, mischievous boy, I the quiet, observant girl. I had watched him grow, watched him stumble, and always, always loved him. When he proposed, I convinced myself it was real, that he loved me too, despite the increasing distance in his eyes.

It was after his first serious girlfriend, a vibrant artist named Ava, that he changed. Grandfather Harmon had vehemently disapproved of Ava, calling her "unsuitable" for the Harmon empire, citing her unpredictable nature and lack of "business acumen." He had threatened to cut Braden off, to disinherit him, if he didn't end things. Braden, always ambitious, always seeking his grandfather's approval, had eventually broken Ava's heart. He never quite recovered.

After that, the warmth in his eyes turned to ice. He became colder, more distant, his charm replaced by cynicism. He resented me, resented our forced engagement, viewing me as the "safe" option, the one his grandfather approved of. I was the shortcut he was forced to take, a constant reminder of the love he had to give up. He tormented me because I was an easy target, a stand-in for his own frustrated desires. I became the scapegoat for a life he felt was dictated by others.

He would often find petty ways to punish me. Like the time he forced me to drink an entire bottle of champagne at a party, knowing I had a severe allergy to it, just to see my face flush and my breathing become labored. He' d watched, detached, as his friends rushed to my aid. Or the times he would call me late at night, drunk, demanding I pick him up from some bar, barely acknowledging my presence in the car, only to coldly ask, "Are you sure you don't mind, Elinor? I wouldn't want to inconvenience my wife." And like a fool, I would smile, would say "Of course not, Braden," believing that by being indispensable, I could somehow make him love me.

I woke up the next morning, my body aching, my head pounding. The room was a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, a faint smell of stale alcohol hanging in the air. Braden was gone, of course. Always gone. The shame washed over me, a suffocating wave that threatened to drown me. I had given him everything, and he had given me nothing but pain and contempt.

I had clung to the illusion that our marriage, forced as it was, might somehow rekindle the innocent affection we once shared. But every passing day had only highlighted the chasm between us, a chasm filled with his resentment and my unrequited love. He didn't just dislike me; he hated me. The truth, stark and brutal, settled in my heart.

"Why can't we just be normal, Braden?" I whispered, the question escaping my lips before I could stop it. The silence in the room was my only answer.

Sometimes, after one of his outbursts, he would leave a single red rose on my pillow, or a small box of chocolates. Empty gestures, I knew even then, but a tiny flicker of hope, of the boy I once knew, would always ignite. I would wake up, find the gesture, and he would be gone, leaving me to wonder if it was a sign of remorse or just another manipulation.

This morning, though, there was nothing. No rose, no chocolate, just the cold, empty bed beside me. The house was quiet, too quiet.

As I descended the grand staircase, the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, a kind woman with a perpetually worried expression, stepped forward. "Mrs. Harmon, Mr. Harmon asked about lunch. He said to prepare his usual."

My brow furrowed. His usual? Braden was notoriously picky. He had a specific diet, a preference for organic, locally sourced ingredients, prepared by me. I used to spend hours poring over cookbooks, experimenting with recipes, trying to create something that would finally earn his praise, a genuine smile. He would often complain about the blandness of restaurant food, about how only my cooking truly understood his palate.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "No," I said, my voice firm, surprising even myself. "Tell Mr. Harmon he will have to make his own arrangements for lunch today."

Mrs. Gable's eyes widened. She had never heard me speak to Braden like that, never seen me refuse him. A flicker of triumph, quickly suppressed, crossed my face. The "urgent meeting" excuse the nurse had given me, the public display with Destany, and his drunken rage last night had finally cemented it. He wasn't just indifferent; he was actively cruel. And I was tired of being his willing victim.

I thought of the legal notice that had arrived yesterday, buried under a pile of junk mail. My brother, Guy, had sent it. It was a draft for divorce proceedings. I had dismissed it then, another "overreaction" from my fiercely protective brother. But now, it felt like a lifeline.

The weight of my own past foolishness pressed down on me. I had told myself he married me because he secretly loved me, because our families had arranged it, because it was 'destiny.' But he had married me because his grandfather, Keshawn Harmon, the formidable CEO of Harmon Records, had orchestrated it. Keshawn didn't care about love; he cared about assets. My father's unreleased songbook was a goldmine, and I was the key. Braden was simply a pawn, forced to secure the family's biggest score. And I, in my naive love, had walked willingly into the trap.

The divorce papers, once a terrifying symbol of failure, now felt like a promise. A promise of freedom.

"Yes, Mrs. Harmon," Mrs. Gable said, a faint smile touching her lips. "I'll let him know."

I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that this marriage was over. It had been over for a long time. And now, I was finally ready to admit it.

My hand reached for the phone. I had a lawyer to call.