Chapter 12: The Call
1383 Words
Elara’s POV
It’s been a month since Lucien gave me a phone.
A whole month.
Sometimes I still stare at it in disbelief, turning it over in my hands like it might disappear if I look away for too long. Something so small, so ordinary for most people—but for me, it feels like proof that my life didn’t completely stop eight years ago.
The phone didn’t change my situation. I was still living in the Blackwood mansion. Still married under circumstances neither of us spoke about. Still careful with my words, my movements, my expectations.
But it changed my days.
The silence didn’t feel as heavy anymore.
Lucien had been different since then.
Not warm. Not affectionate. He didn’t suddenly become gentle or easy to understand. But something about him softened—not outwardly, not in ways others would notice. Only in small things.
He spoke to me more.
Asked where I was in the house if he didn’t see me all day. Sent short messages that appeared unexpectedly on my screen.
Eat something.
Did the maid bring your lunch?
Don’t stay in the garden after sunset.
The messages were simple. Practical. Almost cold.
And yet… I found myself waiting for them.
At first, I didn’t know how to respond. I would stare at the screen for minutes, unsure whether a reply was expected. Eventually, I learned that a simple “Yes” or “Okay” was enough.
He never continued the conversation.
But he always read the message.
Strangely, he was strict about the phone too. The day he handed it to me, his tone had been calm but firm, leaving no space for argument.
“No chatting with strangers.”
“No replying to unknown numbers.”
“No accepting random messages.”
Then, after a pause, he added quietly, “You don’t know how cruel people can be online.”
The way he said it made me think he wasn’t talking about strangers at all. It sounded like experience. Like regret.
The only contacts saved on my phone were his and Grandmother’s.
That was it.
I had social media, yes. But I only watched. Funny videos. Cooking clips. Travel pages filled with places I would probably never see. I didn’t post. I didn’t comment. I didn’t exist there.
Sometimes I searched for my old friends.
Names that once felt like home.
The results always left a dull ache in my chest. Either their usernames had changed, or their lives had moved forward without me. Photos of graduations. Vacations. Weddings.
Time had continued for them.
It had simply stopped for me.
Still… lately, I’ve been happy.
The realization surprises me every time it crosses my mind.
Happy feels like a dangerous word. Temporary. Fragile. Something that could disappear if I acknowledged it too loudly.
But it’s there.
Especially because Grandmother is coming back this weekend.
Just thinking about her makes warmth spread through my chest. With her, I don’t feel like an obligation or a burden. She looks at me like I matter. Like I belong somewhere.
My phone buzzed in my hand, pulling me from my thoughts.
Lucien.
Dress up. Dinner gathering tonight. I’ll pick you up by 5.
My heart skipped.
Then sank.
A gathering.
The word alone made my chest tighten. Gatherings meant people. Lucien’s people. Elegant women with perfect smiles and sharp eyes. Men who spoke in quiet judgments. The memory of the first dinner with his friends rushed back—the whispers, the looks, the way I felt like an intruder sitting beside him.
I didn’t want to go.
The thought made my stomach twist painfully. But I couldn’t say no. Not now. Not when things between us had finally become… peaceful.
I didn’t want the cold version of Lucien back.
So I dressed up.
I chose a honey-colored maxi gown that flowed softly around my legs. Light. Modest. Safe. I curled only the ends of my brown hair and let it fall naturally down my back. Minimal makeup. Almost no jewelry.
Simple enough not to attract attention.
Invisible enough to feel protected.
At exactly five o’clock, Lucien walked into the living room.
When he saw me, he paused.
Just for a moment.
“You look nice,” he said.
The words caught me off guard. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I nodded quickly, unsure what to say. Compliments from him still felt unfamiliar, like stepping onto unstable ground.
The drive to the restaurant was quiet—but not tense. He didn’t rush through traffic. The music played softly in the background. He didn’t seem irritated by my silence.
When we arrived, anxiety returned immediately, tightening around my ribs.
But something felt different.
His friends didn’t look at me the way they used to.
No amused glances. No whispered comments. No subtle exclusion.
They greeted me.
Actually greeted me.
Asked how I was recovering after the hospital. Offered me food first. Included me in conversations instead of talking over me.
I didn’t understand it.
I spoke only when spoken to, careful with every word, waiting for the moment someone would laugh or correct me.
It never came.
The dinner passed slowly, almost gently. For the first time since marrying Lucien, I didn’t feel like I was pretending to belong.
I simply… existed there.
And no one pushed me out.
By the time we returned home, exhaustion settled over me—not physical, but emotional. Too many unfamiliar feelings in one evening. Too much relief mixed with confusion.
I was about to excuse myself when Lucien’s phone rang.
The sharp sound cut through the quiet room.
He glanced at the screen, and something changed instantly.
His posture stiffened. His jaw tightened. The calm expression he wore all evening disappeared.
My stomach dropped.
I didn’t mean to look, but my eyes moved on their own.
The name on the screen was clear.
My uncle.
A cold chill crept up my spine.
Lucien answered, his voice flat. “Yes.”
I stayed where I was, unable to move. My heart began pounding so hard it hurt.
Please don’t invite us.
Please don’t ask us to come over.
Please… not again.
But the voice on the other end wasn’t confident. Even from across the room, I could hear it—shaking, uneven, desperate.
I had never heard my uncle sound like that before.
Lucien’s expression darkened. “What?”
Silence followed.
Long. Heavy. Endless.
The air in the room felt suddenly too thin.
Lucien’s grip tightened around the phone. His knuckles turned white.
Another pause.
Then he slowly lifted his eyes to meet mine.
And in that moment, I knew something terrible had happened.
His voice, when he spoke, was quieter than I had ever heard it.
“Marcus is dead.”
The words didn’t make sense at first.
Dead?
My mind rejected it immediately.
Marcus.
My cousin.
The boy whose smile had followed me into nightmares. The one whose presence made my skin crawl. The reason sleep had never felt safe.
Dead.
The room tilted. My vision blurred. My legs weakened beneath me, and I grabbed the edge of the chair to steady myself.
I expected fear.
Relief.
Something clear.
Instead, emotion crashed into me all at once—shock, confusion, disbelief, and something darker I didn’t want to name.
Because a small, shameful part of me felt lighter.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
I couldn’t breathe properly. Memories flooded back without warning—locked doors, mocking laughter, the feeling of being trapped in my own home.
Gone.
He was gone.
My chest tightened painfully.
I didn’t know whether to cry or feel free.
Lucien moved closer, his presence steady, grounding. He didn’t touch me, but he stayed near enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.
“What happened?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He shook his head once. “I don’t know yet.”
But his eyes told me something else.
This wasn’t simple.
This wasn’t natural.
Fear crawled up my spine again, colder this time.
Because Marcus’s death didn’t feel like an ending.
It felt like the beginning of something worse.
And as silence filled the room, one thought echoed louder than all the others—
If Marcus was dead…
What would Ethan do next?
- Writer
