LOVE HIS ENEMY: My Husband's Downfall

Chapter 6

Sebastian

The gala is alive with music, laughter, and the hum of conversation. I walk through the grand hall, my steps deliberate, my posture commanding. I am happy with myself. Not for the party but for my plan coming to fruition.

I smile to myself, satisfaction curling at the edges of my thoughts.

My revenge on Christopher Bell is taking shape. He has no idea what’s coming, and that’s exactly how I want it.

Christopher has spent years destroying lives. He destroyed mine. He destroyed my wife's. He thought he had gotten away without consequence.

But when I heard his company was faltering, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, I saw my opportunity. I’d been patient, biding my time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Now, here I am, the "savior" swooping in as an investor, offering him a lifeline he can’t refuse.

It’s almost poetic.

I make my way through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and shaking hands with key players.

Every interaction is another move in this game of chess I’ve spent years perfecting. But tonight, I have another piece to manoeuvre: Elizabeth Bell.

I insisted on having the interview here at this gala, knowing she’d have to attend.

She’s my way in, the key to unravelling Christopher’s life from the inside.

She seemes like an easy mark at first—cold, alone, and clearly unhappy in her toxic, violent marriage. But the more time I spend around her, the more I realise there’s something beneath that stoic exterior. Something intriguing.

Then I see her. She takes my breath away.

Elizabeth stands at the entrance, her raven-black hair swept into an elegant updo, leaving her neck exposed.

The soft lighting glints off her olive skin, and the deep red floral dress she’s wearing hugs her figure in all the right places.

Her eyes draw me in, as if pulling me into a spell.

For the first time, I’m struck by her beauty. It’s… distracting.

I stride toward her, unable to stop myself.

“Oh, wow,” I say when I reach her, the words slipping out before I can check them.

She lets out a small smile, polite but distant.

“Thank you, sir,” she says formally, keeping her tone neutral.

I sense the tension radiating off her, likely still uneasy from our earlier interaction.

She’s trying to maintain professionalism, but there’s something else there—a flicker of uncertainty that tells me I’ve left her rattled.

“So,” she says, her tone brisk. “Where are they? The people from the magazine?” She folds her arms, keeping the conversation all business.

I should answer, but I’m momentarily distracted by her lips as they move. They’re full, soft, and for reasons I can’t fully understand, I find myself wondering how they’d feel against mine.

“Sebastian,” she says sharply, her voice pulling me out of my thoughts. “Are you ignoring me?”

“No,” I reply smoothly, recovering quickly.

“Just getting ready for a long night.”

I stretch my hand, resting it lightly on her waist to guide her into the room.

She stiffens under my touch, and I feel her flinch ever so slightly.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” I say, my tone softer now.

“I didn’t think it was a request,” she fires back, her voice laced with sarcasm. “When can we start the interview?” she asks, clearly eager to move things along.

“Not yet,” I tell her, steering her toward the heart of the party.

I find myself talking to her more easily than I expected. She’s sharper than I anticipated, not at all the submissive, broken wife I thought she’d be. There’s an edge to her, a spark, and it catches me off guard.

Finally, the interviewer arrives, a sharp-eyed journalist named Charlie from Investor Magazine. She’s bubbly but professional, her demeanour putting the guests at ease.

“So, Mr. Valdez,” she begins, “this is quite a bold move for you—jumping into the energy industry. Especially since you’ve kept such a low profile since your wife’s death.”

That question opens up the opportunity for me. I need to find out how much Elizabeth knows. Her reaction will tell me what I need to know from her.

The words hang in the air like a weight, and I glance at Elizabeth. Her expression shifts—shock, curiosity, and something softer I can’t quite name.

I clear my throat and meet Charlie’s gaze. “After losing the love of my life, everything got hard for me.” I begin, “I needed a change. Expanding my horizons felt... necessary.”

Elizabeth’s eyes stay on me, her curiosity sharpening as the interview continues.

“And why energy?” Charlie presses.

“Well,” I say, leaning back in my chair with calculated ease, “energy drives everything. It’s the backbone of modern life. I’ve already established myself in tech. This felt like the logical next step.”

The interview drags on, a series of practiced answers and deliberate charm. But I’m not paying attention to Charlie anymore.

My focus is on Elizabeth, watching the way her eyes follow me and the way her lips press together as though she’s holding back questions.

When it’s over, I stand and make my way toward her. The crowd around us fades as I stop beside her; I can feel the tension fading.

“I didn’t know you were married and that your wife died,” she says softly, her voice tinged with genuine sympathy.

I nod, my expression carefully measured. “It’s not something I like to talk about.”

“What happened?” She asks, her voice even softer now.

“Car crash,” I reply, keeping my tone flat.

Her hand hesitates before resting gently on my arm. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian,” she says, her dark eyes meeting mine.

I turn to face her fully, letting the weight of the moment settle between us. “It was a few years ago,” I say quietly. “But my daughter and I feel it every day.”

Her sympathy is written all over her face, and for a moment, I feel a pang of guilt. The story is true, but I know I’m using it now, twisting it to serve my goals. This is not about my wife. It is about the man who killed her.

She doesn’t pull her hand away, and I can feel the warmth of her touch seep through my sleeve.

Her closeness stirs something in me I haven’t felt in years. Without thinking, I lean in, my face inches from hers. I pause, my lips hovering just above hers, waiting.

She doesn’t move back.

I close the distance, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss. Her initial hesitation melts away, and for a brief moment, I feel her respond, her lips parting under mine. There’s hunger there, a longing I didn’t expect. This will be easy, I think to myself.

Then she pulls away, her breath shallow.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she says quickly, stepping back. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” I say, my voice low. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t wait for me to say more. She turns and walks away, her steps quick and purposeful as she leaves the party.

I watch her go, the taste of her still lingering on my lips.

My mission is accomplished—she’s opening up to me, softening, falling into place like a pawn on the board. But as I stand there, my fingers brushing over my lips, I realise something unsettling.

For the first time in years, the kiss wasn’t just a means to an end. It felt… real.

And that’s dangerous.