Chapter 2

Elena Salinas POV:

The heavy thud of Julian' s footsteps echoed through the penthouse, each impact vibrating through the very floorboards. He was home. The air thickened, heavy with his rage. I heard the crash of something in the living room, then his voice, a guttural roar.

"Elena!"

I sat on the edge of the bed, calm, almost serene. I had waited for this. My fingers smoothed the silk of my robe, the one with the carefully placed tear.

He burst into the bedroom, his face contorted with fury. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, his jaw tight. He looked like a storm, ready to break.

"What is this, Elena?!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the quiet room. "Is this your idea of revenge?"

He threw something at me. It struck my arm hard, then fell to the bed. It was my phone. The screen displayed the photo. My intimate, staged moment, now public.

"Who is he?" Julian demanded, his voice a low growl. "Who is the man in that photo?"

My gaze drifted from my phone to the other image Julian had thrown on the bed. It was a printout of the St. Barts photos, Julian and his latest model. The contrast was stark. His lips, pressed to hers in a public display, while he demanded answers about my fabricated intimacy. The hypocrisy was a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Does it matter?" I asked, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. I picked up one of his scattered shirts from the floor, neatly folding it. A deliberate, slow movement, designed to infuriate him further.

His chest heaved. "Does it matter? Elena, you deliberately tried to humiliate me! In front of everyone! You posted that... that indecent photo!"

I looked up, meeting his furious gaze. "Indecent? You think that' s indecent, Julian? What about your weekly parades of models and actresses? What about being known across New York as the wife you refuse to touch, while you publicly fondle every starlet on your arm?"

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. He had no reply. His face, however, turned a darker shade of crimson.

"Who is he?" he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet now, laced with a venomous possessiveness. "Tell me his name, Elena."

I just shook my head, a small, defiant gesture. "It doesn't matter, Julian. You told me to have my own fun. I simply followed your advice." I paused, letting my words sink in. "Besides, I stopped caring about your conquests a long time ago. Why should you care about mine?"

His eyes narrowed, a predatory glint in them. "Don't play games with me, Elena. You think this is fair, do you?"

I remembered the early days of our marriage. Every time a new woman appeared in the tabloids, I would confront him. I would cry, plead, demand to know who she was, if he loved her. My heart would shred itself into tiny pieces, desperate for an answer, for a sign that he still cared.

But Julian never changed. He would calmly explain his "needs," his "status," his "business obligations." He would tell me not to be so dramatic, so emotional. He would tell me that I didn't understand how the world worked.

Over time, the desperate plea for information, for understanding, had withered. It was replaced by a hollow acceptance. I stopped asking. I stopped caring, or at least, I pretended to. It was the only way to survive. I realized then that his parade of women wasn't about love or even lust. It was about control. About showing the world, and me, that he was untouchable, that he could do whatever he wanted.

And now, I was doing what I wanted.

Julian let out a chilling, humorless laugh. It sent shivers down my spine. "You've grown some teeth, haven't you, Elena?" His gaze dropped, lingering on my neck, then my collarbone. A cold dread settled in my stomach.

He moved fast, suddenly towering over me. Before I could react, he pushed me back onto the bed, his weight pinning me down. The ornate letter opener, the one I had used to shatter our wedding photo, was suddenly in his hand. He pressed the sharp tip against my skin, just above my collarbone, a searing, icy point.

"Julian!" I screamed, struggling beneath him. My heart hammered against my ribs. "What are you doing? Let me go!"

He pushed harder. A sharp, searing pain bloomed on my skin. I cried out. A thin line of red appeared, then blossomed, soaking into the silk. Blood. My own blood.

His eyes were bloodshot, veins throbbing in his neck. He looked like a stranger, a monster. "This is the first and last time you humiliate me, Elena," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "Take down that photo, now. Or I swear to God, I will make you regret ever crossing me."

I knew what "normal" meant to Julian. It meant me, silent and subservient, a beautiful ornament in his opulent cage. It meant me accepting his affairs, his cruelty, his utter disregard for my feelings.

His dark eyes locked with mine, a silent threat. Tears, hot and involuntary, spilled from my eyes. Not tears of fear, not entirely. Tears of pain, yes, but also of a profound, shattering rage.

He saw the tears. His grip on the letter opener loosened slightly. A flicker of something, perhaps concern, crossed his face, quickly replaced by irritation. He pulled the ornate letter opener away, tossing it onto the floor with a clatter. "Don't pretend, Elena. Don't you dare pretend this is real."

I pushed him away with all my strength. "Get away from me!" My voice was raw, choked with emotion.

He stumbled back, his face darkening. "Still playing the victim? You think a little scratch will get you sympathy? Is that why you posted that picture, to make me look like the bad guy?" He gestured wildly at the bloody sheets. The corner of the letter opener, still on the floor, caught the light, gleaming menacingly.

Another wave of pain washed over me, a throbbing ache where the opener had cut me. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the cold, crushing despair in my chest. To him, this bleeding wound, this raw terror, was just an act. A performance.

His eyes were devoid of warmth, of any recognition of the woman he had married. "You're just like your mother, Elena," he sneered, quoting his own mother' s favorite insult. "Always chasing after what you can't have, and then crying when you don't get it."

He took a step back, pulling a folded document from his jacket pocket. He threw it onto the bed, beside my bleeding arm. "You want out, Elena? Fine. Here it is. Don't bore me with your theatrics. Let's see if you're brave enough to sign this."

It was a divorce agreement. My name, then his, already signed in a bold, confident flourish. Beside his signature, a woman's name was scribbled in tiny, elegant script. Aubrey Good. My half-sister. The very thought of her sent a fresh wave of nausea through me, mixing with the pain and rage.

The terms were surprisingly generous. A substantial settlement, property, assets. Julian, in his arrogance, truly believed I was a gold digger, that money would always keep me tethered. He believed I was nothing without him.

He was wrong.

My hand, still trembling, reached for a pen. I uncapped it, the click echoing in the heavy silence. My signature, usually precise, was a little shaky, but it was firm.

I signed the papers. My heart felt like a block of ice.

"I'm leaving," I said, my voice barely a whisper. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I couldn't stay.

I picked up my phone, dialing a number I knew by heart. "Cooper? It's me. I need to leave tonight. Can you help?"

Julian clearly thought this was a game, a power play. He thought he knew me. But he had no idea. He wouldn't know the real Elena until it was too late. He wouldn't know the woman who had just cut the last thread binding her to him.