BOUND BY HIS BROKEN VOWS

THE RIVAL'S RETURN

The mansion buzzed with unusual activity the following week. Extra staff moved through the halls, florists arrived with lavish bouquets, and a catering team set up in the grand ballroom.

Elena learned the reason soon enough: Adrian was hosting a private dinner for the city’s most powerful investors.

“Image is everything,” he said curtly when she asked if her presence was required. “You will stand at my side, smile when necessary, and say nothing more than you must.”

Her cheeks burned, but she nodded.

That evening, Elena wore a midnight-blue gown that hugged her curves without being daring. The stylist had pinned her hair into soft waves, and a diamond necklace glittered at her throat—a piece Adrian had selected but never commented on.

When Adrian appeared in his tailored suit, the room seemed smaller. His gaze swept over her quickly, unreadable as always, before he offered his arm.

“You’ll do,” he said again.

It stung. But she took his arm anyway.

The ballroom shimmered with chandeliers and the low hum of conversations. Elena tried to stay close to Adrian, drawing what little confidence she could from his presence.

And then she saw her.

Victoria Sinclair.

Tall, impossibly elegant, with hair like spun gold and a smile sharpened into a weapon. She moved through the crowd like she owned it, eyes locking onto Adrian with unmistakable familiarity.

Her lips curved. “Adrian.”

Elena stiffened as the woman leaned in and brushed a kiss against his cheek, ignoring her entirely.

“Victoria,” Adrian replied coolly, offering the barest nod. “I didn’t realize you were back in town.”

“Oh, I couldn’t stay away.” Her gaze finally flicked to Elena, lingering a moment too long. “And this must be… your wife.”

Elena forced a smile. “Elena.”

Victoria’s eyes gleamed with mockery. “How… quaint. I must say, Adrian, I didn’t expect you to replace me so quickly. Or with someone so… ordinary.”

Heat rushed to Elena’s cheeks, but before she could stammer a reply, Adrian’s hand slid around her waist.

“She’s my wife,” he said, his voice like steel. “And she deserves your respect.”

The entire table fell silent. Victoria’s smile faltered for the briefest moment before she recovered.

“Of course,” she purred, raising her glass. “To the happy couple.”

Crystal clinked, laughter resumed, but Elena’s chest remained tight.

For the rest of the evening, Victoria hovered her words cutting, her presence suffocating. She recounted old memories with Adrian, laughed at private jokes, and dismissed Elena with subtle, poisonous remarks.

Elena kept her composure, but inside, doubt gnawed at her. She wasn’t glamorous. She wasn’t powerful. She wasn’t Victoria.

And though Adrian had defended her once, his eyes betrayed nothing. No reassurance. No comfort.

Later that night, as they returned to the mansion, Elena finally whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

Adrian loosened his tie, his expression unreadable. “Because she doesn’t matter.”

“She clearly thinks she does.”

His jaw tightened, and for the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Pain. Regret. A ghost of the past.

“Victoria belongs to a life I buried,” he said flatly. “Don’t dig it up.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving Elena alone in the hall, her heart torn between relief and fear.

Victoria might have belonged to his past.

But she wasn’t done with his present.