Chapter 2

Eliana POV:

The next morning, I walked into the Moretti mansion for what I knew would be the last time, holding the box of his things. It felt heavier than it should, weighted with the ghost of a future that was no longer mine.

Jax's mother, Karen, met me in the grand foyer. Her usually warm features were drawn tight with concern. "Eliana, dear. I'm so glad you're here. Jax has been in a terrible mood all morning."

I managed a small, empty smile. "I just came to return some things."

She nodded, her eyes searching my face, but I kept it a blank mask. She pointed me toward his suite, and I walked up the sweeping marble staircase, my steps silent on the plush runner.

I didn't bother to knock.

I pushed the door open and froze. The air hung thick with the cloying scent of Catalina's cheap perfume. She was standing in the middle of his room, wearing his personal leather jacket.

It wasn't just any jacket. It was the one with the Moretti family crest embroidered over the heart-a symbol of his power, his authority. A symbol meant for his future wife.

She saw me and a slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She ran a hand down the sleeve, flaunting it. A direct challenge.

Jax emerged from his bathroom, toweling his hair. He saw me and his face hardened. "Ellie," he said-the old pet name now a weapon of dismissal. "What are you doing here?"

The boy I had loved was gone. In his place stood this arrogant stranger, his eyes cold and impatient. The last ember of warmth in my chest turned to ice. My resolve hardened.

I walked back out to the top of the grand staircase just outside his door. Without a word, I turned the box over.

His things-a watch I'd given him, a framed photo of us as kids, letters I'd written-crashed and shattered against the marble below. The sound echoed through the silent mansion.

His jaw clenched. "Get everything of yours out of this house," he ordered, his voice a low, dangerous command. "I don't want a single memory of you left here."

I watched, numb, as he turned back to Catalina. A glass had tipped over on his nightstand, and he gently wiped the spill with a cloth, his movements tender. "You'll be cold without a jacket," he murmured to her, his voice soft with a tenderness I hadn't heard directed at me in years. "Take another one."

It was a deference, a gentleness, he no longer showed his own fiancée.

I turned to leave, my heart a raw, hollow cavity in my chest. Near the front door, Catalina caught up to me, her fingers digging into my arm.

"He's mine now," she hissed, her face inches from mine. "I'm going to take everything that was supposed to be yours."