Chapter 3

He took her back to his penthouse. The same penthouse she had fled from just days ago. The city lights spread out below them like a carpet of fallen stars, but tonight, they offered no comfort, only a sense of vertigo and loss.

He didn't speak during the drive. He just sat beside her, a silent, brooding presence that filled the car with a suffocating tension. When they arrived, he carried her luggage himself, his movements efficient and impersonal. He opened the door and gestured for her to enter.

"You can take the master bedroom," he said, his voice flat.

It was the same room where they had spent countless nights, a room that held the ghosts of their secret affair. The thought of sleeping in that bed alone, with the memory of his betrayal fresh in her mind, was unbearable.

"I'll take the guest room," she said, her voice colder than she intended. "I won't be staying long. Just until I can make arrangements to get to Seattle."

A flicker of something-disappointment? frustration?-crossed his face before he masked it. "As you wish."

She locked herself in the guest room, a small, sterile space that felt like a hotel. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank walls, counting down the days until her wedding. Eleven more days. Eleven days until she belonged to a man she had never met. It felt like a death sentence and a liberation all at once.

The next morning, she found him in the kitchen. The tension from the night before still hung in the air, thick and unspoken.

She decided to break it.

"Are you and Camille back together?" she asked, her voice deliberately casual as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

He didn't look at her. He continued to read the financial news on his tablet. "I'm aware of who she is."

The non-answer was an answer in itself.

"I'm sure you are," Kennedy said, a bitter edge to her tone. "It must be nice to have someone so... indebted to you. Someone you can always count on to be fragile and in need of saving."

He finally looked up, his eyes cold. "Camille and I have a history. It's complicated."

"Everything with you is complicated, Elliot."

He put down his tablet. "Stay away from her, Kennedy. She's been through enough. I won't have you tormenting her."

The warning was clear. He was protecting Camille. From her.

A laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped her lips. "Don't worry. I have no intention of getting in the way of your... complicated history. I have a wedding to plan, after all."

She took her coffee and retreated back to the guest room, the conversation leaving a sour taste in her mouth. He had built a fortress around Camille, and Kennedy was firmly on the outside.

She spent the day in her room, the silence of the penthouse pressing in on her. That night, she couldn't sleep. She kept thinking about Elliot's habits, how he always slept on the left side of the bed, how the sound of his steady breathing had once been a comfort. Now, the silence from his room down the hall was a constant reminder that he was no longer hers. He wasn't thinking of her. He wasn't checking on her. He had brought her here out of a sense of duty, not desire.

The next day, he approached her with an invitation. "There's a party tonight. At my associate's house. I want you to come with me."

"Why?" she asked, suspicious.

"I don't want you sitting here alone, brooding."

The thought of spending another night trapped in this silent apartment was suffocating. Against her better judgment, she agreed. "Fine."

The party was at a lavish mansion in the hills, a glittering affair filled with the city's elite. As they walked in, a woman with a bright, welcoming smile approached them. It was Camille.

"Elliot! You made it!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck in a familiar embrace. She pulled back and her eyes landed on Kennedy, her smile faltering for just a fraction of a second. "Oh. Kennedy. You're here too."

"Hello, Camille," Kennedy said, her voice dripping with ice.

"I'm so glad you could both come," Camille said, recovering quickly. "It's a welcome home party. For me."

Kennedy felt the floor drop out from under her. He had brought her to a party celebrating the return of her rival. The humiliation was a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. She turned to leave, but Camille's hand on her arm stopped her.

"Please, don't go," Camille said, her voice laced with false concern. "I know things must be hard for you right now, with your father cutting you off. You must feel so lost."

Her words were spoken just loudly enough for those nearby to hear. Heads turned. Whispers started to ripple through the crowd.

"I'm fine," Kennedy said through gritted teeth.

Camille's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Kennedy, you don't have to be so brave. I know we've had our differences, but I truly want to help." She sniffled, a perfect, delicate sound that drew everyone's sympathy.

"Stop it," Kennedy hissed, her patience gone.

"Please don't be mad at me," Camille whimpered, turning to Elliot, her lower lip trembling. "Elliot, she's scaring me."

Elliot stepped forward, placing a comforting arm around Camille's shoulders. He looked at Kennedy, his eyes hard with disappointment. "Kennedy. That's enough."

He led the weeping Camille away, leaving Kennedy standing alone in a sea of judging eyes. She watched him murmur comforting words to Camille, his head bent close to hers. The sight was a dagger to her heart. He had never shown her that kind of public support, that gentle protection. To the world, and to him, she was the villain, and Camille was the victim.

She finally understood. He wasn't just protecting Camille because of the debt. He cared for her. Perhaps he even loved her. And she, Kennedy, had only ever been a diversion, a "beautiful disaster" he enjoyed taming in private but would never claim in public.

The love she had clung to, the hope she had nurtured in the dark, was a lie.

She turned and walked towards the bar, her movements stiff and robotic. She needed a drink. She needed to numb the pain that was threatening to tear her apart.