How do I leave?

Chapter4

Chapter Four – Storm in the Hamptons

POV: Elena

The storm was already screaming by the time we reached the Hamptons estate. Rain battered the limousine in furious sheets, thunder rattling the glass like the sky itself wanted to split open. My hands were damp against the folds of my skirt, and no matter how tightly I clasped them together, they trembled. I told myself it was the storm, but it wasn’t.

It was him.

Adrian Sterling sat across from me, untouched by the chaos outside. The dim interior light sharpened the sculpted lines of his face, catching on the scar near his temple—a scar whispered about in tabloids, a reminder of a night nobody dared question too loudly. He scrolled on his tablet, indifferent, as though I didn’t exist.

“You’re shaking,” he said suddenly, without looking up. His voice was a blade: casual, but cutting.

“I’m not,” I murmured, hating the waver in my own tone.

Finally, his eyes lifted. Cold, impossibly dark, and focused. He studied me like a puzzle he didn’t trust. “The both of us knows that’s a lie,” he said.

The word stung worse than the storm. My breath caught in my chest, but I remained silent, and that seemed to satisfy him. He leaned back, dismissing me without effort. I stared at the rain instead, counting every drop like a prayer for strength.

When the driver announced the roads were closed and we’d have to stay overnight, my stomach dropped. Overnight. In his house. With him.

Adrian’s expression didn’t flicker. “Drive,” was all he said.

The mansion loomed like a predator waiting with its mouth open. Every portrait that lined the marble hallway seemed to sneer at me, as though centuries of Sterlings knew I didn’t belong. My shoes clicked against the polished floor, echoing too loudly, exposing me.

Adrian gestured for me to follow him into his study. Dark wood, shelves of leather-bound secrets, a desk too clean to be honest. He poured whiskey into two glasses, sliding one across the desk without a word.

“I don’t—” I started.

“Better still… I hated bitches that take alcohol,” he cut in, tone leaving no room for refusal.

I lifted the glass, my hand trembling, and swallowed. The burn scorched my throat, but I forced it down. Anything less would have been weakness—and weakness in front of him was death.

He laughed, “So you did that just to piss me off.”

Adrian swirled his own glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. Then, as if he’d been waiting, he spoke. “You were in my office.”

The words sliced the air. My heart stuttered, and I scrambled for denial. “I thought we passed this matter?”

His lips curved, humorless. “Don’t play games with me. I lock my files for a reason. You think I would just let it go that way?”

“I notice it when someone touches what’s mine?”

Panic clawed at my ribs, but I forced my face blank. “I told you I needed resources to report to the press.”

That earned me a laugh—low, sharp, cruel. He set his glass down and leaned forward, his presence suffocating. “Lost in financial ledgers encrypted beyond what most of my board could dream of?”

My mouth went dry. He knew. He didn’t have proof, but he knew.

I lifted my chin anyway. “Maybe I’m smarter than you think.”

His hand shot forward, fingers clamping around my jaw, tilting my face up until pain throbbed along my bone. I gasped, my nails digging into my palms, shame blistering hotter than the ache in my skin.

“Careful,” he murmured. His eyes bored into mine, and in them I saw something worse than anger: amusement. He liked this. Liked seeing me cornered, trembling, and breaking.

Then, as abruptly as he grabbed me, he released me, leaving me aching, humiliated, and small.

He poured himself more whiskey, calm as a storm eye. “You know what I despise most about people like you? The masks. You smile, you nod, and you act obedient. But underneath, you’re rotting.”

The words struck deep. My secrets, my lies, my father’s death—they were rotting me from the inside. My throat tightened, but I forced my voice through it.

“Maybe you’re the one rotting,” I whispered. “Sitting on your empire of glass, watching everything beneath you burn.”

His eyes flashed, and then—God help me—he smiled. Slow, dangerous, unnerving. “Finally. Some honesty.”

It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, the wind pushing me closer. And I couldn’t stop myself.

“Do you even feel anything?” My voice cracked, my anger spilling over. “Or are you exactly what the world says—cold, cruel, untouchable?”

The slap came before I saw it. A crack of skin on skin, my head snapping sideways, fire searing my cheek. Shock froze me, then shame flooded in, hot and choking. My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall, not here, not for him.

His voice was quiet, lethal. “Don’t mistake me for a man who tolerates insolence.”

I bit my lip until blood filled my mouth, swallowing the sob that wanted to escape. “I was wrong,” I whispered.

He watched me for a long, merciless beat. And then, as if nothing had happened, he sat back and sipped his drink.

“You’re shaking again,” he said softly.

“I’m not afraid of you.” My voice betrayed me, thin and trembling.

His laugh was a knife. “Liar.”

For a moment, he went still, studying me. Then his voice dropped, stripped bare. “Do you want to know the truth? I hate it. All of it. The empire, the board, the family name.”

The confession startled me. Vulnerability didn’t belong on his tongue. And yet, in that moment, he looked less like the monster I’d painted him and more like a man bleeding beneath invisible chains.

“Then why hold onto it?” I asked before I could stop myself.

His smile was hollow. “Because chains don’t vanish just because you hate them.”

Something twisted inside me. Against all reason, I whispered, “You don’t have to keep wearing them.”

The air tightened between us. His eyes darkened, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across them. Then he leaned closer, his breath ghosting against my lips. “Careful, Elena. You almost sound like you care.”

And I—fool, coward, traitor to myself—kissed him.

The world vanished. His mouth crushed mine, hard, punishing, devastating. His hands seized my waist, pulling me against him, and I hated myself for yielding, for answering him with equal hunger. Every nerve in me screamed, every vow I’d made burned to ash under the fire of him.

When I broke away, gasping, I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

“Coward,” he murmured.

The word cut deeper than his slap.

I stumbled toward the door, humiliated, raw, my body still trembling from his touch and his cruelty. The storm howled louder outside, the house groaning with it. And then—the lights died.

Darkness swallowed the room whole.

“Adrian?” I whispered, my voice shaking in the pitch black.

No answer.

I reached blindly through the dark, my breath ragged, the storm drowning every sound.

Then, a hand clamped over my mouth.

The grip was rough, merciless. My scream strangled in my throat. I thrashed, panic flooding my veins, but the hand only tightened.

And a voice hissed into my ear, hot and

venomous.

“You’re in the wrong house, little journalist.”