Chapter 12
712 Words
Elliot
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass.
Elliot didn’t remember crossing the penthouse. He only remembered the pressure in his chest—the unbearable weight of having lost control. Of having walked away when every instinct told him to stay.
He stripped off his jacket and hurled it across the room. It hit a chair, slid to the floor.
“Fuck.”
A crystal tumbler followed. It shattered against the wall, the sound sharp and violent, cutting through the silence. Another object. Then another. Books, a lamp, a framed photograph he hadn’t looked at in years.
Control fractured.
He braced his hands on the kitchen counter, head bowed, breath ragged. His reflection in the dark glass barely looked like him—jaw clenched, eyes wild with something dangerously close to panic.
He had frightened her.
Worse—he had abandoned her.
That truth hit harder than the memory of the pool, harder than the ghosts that clawed at him whenever water went still and quiet.
A presence moved behind him.
“Elliot.”
He didn’t turn.
Frank stood just inside the doorway, taking in the wreckage with sharp, assessing eyes. He had heard the noise. Had come running. That alone told Elliot how far he’d slipped.
“This doesn’t happen,” Frank said carefully.
“Not to you.”
Elliot dragged a hand through his hair. “Get travel arrangements ready. Tonight.”
Frank stiffened. “Sir?”
“I’m leaving. I need distance.” His voice hardened back into command. “You said Sam wanted me to meet Father and David. We’ll do it now.”
Frank nodded, concern flickering but unspoken. “And Miss Sheppard?”
Elliot closed his eyes for half a second.
“I’ve already handled that,” he said. “Or I will.”
Sunday morning arrived with a brutal headache and a deeper ache he couldn’t outthink.
Guilt sat heavy in his chest as the car rolled toward the private airstrip. Seattle blurred past, grey and distant. He leaned back, eyes closed, jaw tight.
He pulled out his phone.
“Frank.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thursday evening. I want Celina taken shopping. Full wardrobe. Ballgown included.” He paused. “Discreetly. A personal shopper only. No pressure.”
“Yes.”
“She’s to stay at the penthouse for the weekend. Staffed. Assistant available at all times.”
“And the poolhouse?”
“She won’t be going back there,” Elliot said firmly. “Not alone.”
Frank hesitated. “She may refuse.”
Elliot’s voice dropped. “Then make sure she knows this isn’t an order. It’s… consideration.”
A rare thing, coming from him.
The jet lifted smoothly into the sky, but Elliot felt no relief.
Hours later, the four brothers sat together for the first time in months—David composed and authoritative, Sam relaxed but watchful, Roland quiet and observant. Elliot felt their attention like pressure against his skin.
“You’ve been unbearable,” Sam said bluntly.
“Snapping at everyone. Disappearing. Losing your edge.”
“That takes effort,” Roland added dryly.
David studied him. “What’s going on, Elliot?”
Silence stretched.
Then Elliot exhaled, long and slow.
“There’s a woman,” he said.
That alone stunned them.
Sam’s brows shot up. “A woman?”
“Yes.”
He told them—enough to matter, not enough to expose her. The poolhouse. The tension. The night. The way he’d panicked and run.
The room went quiet.
“You never unraveled like this,” David said carefully. “Not even after—”
“I know,” Elliot cut in. His voice rough. “That’s the problem.”
Sam leaned back, whistling low. “Sounds like she got under your armor.”
Elliot stared out the window, jaw tight.
“She didn’t break it,” he said. “She made me aware it was there.”
For the first time, he didn’t feel ashamed of that truth.
As the jet cut through the clouds, Elliot reached a decision with terrifying clarity.
Running hadn’t saved him.
Control hadn’t saved him.
If Celina Sheppard was the thing that could ruin him—
Then he would pursue her anyway.
Even if it cost him everything.
- Writer
