Too Late Mr. Noble: You Can't Afford Me

The phone vibrated against the hard surface of the makeup table, a harsh, mechanical buzz that cut through the low hum of the studio. Elle Allison stared at the screen. The name Carlyn flashed urgently.

She didn't want to look. Her stomach gave a sharp, warning twist, the kind that usually preceded bad news or a missed meal. She slid her finger across the glass.

The photo was grainy, clearly taken with a high zoom from a dark corner, but the subjects were unmistakable. Hunt Noble sat in a leather booth at the Polo Club. He was leaning in, his posture relaxed, dangerously intimate. A woman with blonde hair and a dress that cost more than a mid-sized sedan was whispering into his ear.

Elle focused on Hunt's mouth. The corner of his lip was quirked upward.

He was smiling.

Her fingers tightened around the phone until the edges bit into her skin. Her knuckles turned the color of old bone. It wasn't the woman. There were always women. It was the smile. He hadn't smiled at her like that in six months.

"Five minutes to set, Ms. Allison!"

The makeup artist pushed through the door, sponges and brushes in hand.

Elle shoved the phone face down. She forced her facial muscles to relax, pulling her lips into the vacant, sweet curve the world expected from her. The mask slid into place. It felt heavy today.

"Ready," she said. Her voice was light, airy, and completely fake.

Three hours later, the shoot wrapped. Elle didn't go home. She drove her Audi toward Fifth Avenue, navigating the late afternoon traffic with a kind of numb precision.

The interior of the jewelry store smelled of expensive perfume and old money. The clerk, a man with a suit that fit too perfectly, brought out the velvet box with reverent hands.

"The custom sapphires, Ms. Allison. As requested."

Elle opened the box. The blue stones caught the light, cold and brilliant. Engraved on the back of the platinum setting were the initials H.N.

Three months. She had ordered these three months ago to mark their three-year anniversary. She ran her thumb over the engraving. It felt sharp.

"They're perfect," she said, though the words tasted like ash.

The penthouse was dark when she arrived. The silence in Hunt's apartment wasn't peaceful; it was oppressive. It felt like a vacuum waiting to suck the air out of her lungs.

Elle turned on the single light in the foyer. She placed the velvet box on the console table, right in the center, where it couldn't be missed. Then she sat on the sofa.

She waited.

Time moved like thick syrup. Midnight came and went. One a.m. Two a.m. Her stomach cramped, a physical knot of hunger and anxiety that made her nauseous.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open, and Hunt Noble walked in. He brought the cold November air with him, mixed with the scent of scotch and a perfume that wasn't hers.

He didn't look at her. He didn't look at the clock. His eyes swept over the console table, registering the velvet box for a fraction of a second before dismissing it. He loosened his tie, pulling the silk strip from his neck and tossing it onto the armchair.

"You're up," he said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

Elle stood. Her legs felt stiff. She walked toward him, reaching out to take his coat, a habit ingrained over three years of trying to be useful.

"Let me-"

Hunt side-stepped her. The movement was fluid, practiced. He walked past her outstretched hand to the bar cart and poured two fingers of whiskey.

Elle's hand hovered in the empty air. She slowly lowered it, her fingers curling into a fist at her side.

"Is the news true?" she asked. Her voice was quiet, barely carrying across the expansive room.

Hunt took a sip of the amber liquid. He didn't turn around. "Since when do you read the tabloids, Elle?"

"Since my friends started sending me pictures of my boyfriend with other women."

He turned then. His face was a mask of boredom. "It was a business meeting. Don't start."

"At two in the morning? At the Polo Club?"

"I don't answer to you." The ice in his voice cracked something inside her chest. "I provide for you. There is a difference."

Elle looked at him. Really looked at him. He was beautiful in a cruel, sharp way, but tonight he looked like a stranger.

She turned and walked back to the foyer. She picked up the velvet box.

Hunt watched her, his brow furrowing slightly. "What are you doing?"

Elle walked into the kitchen. The marble island was cold under her palms. She moved to the sink and flipped the switch for the garbage disposal.

The machine roared to life, a mechanical growl.

She held the box over the drain.

"Elle," Hunt warned. He set his glass down.

She dropped it.

The sound was horrific. Metal grinding against metal, the crunch of velvet and platinum being chewed apart. It shrieked through the silent apartment like a dying animal.

Hunt moved. He crossed the distance between them in three long strides, his hand clamping around her wrist. He slammed his other hand onto the switch, killing the noise.

Silence rushed back in, ringing in her ears.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice was low, vibrating with suppressed rage.

Elle looked up at him. Her eyes burned, hot and dry. She wouldn't cry. Not now.

"Celebrating," she whispered. "We're done."

Hunt's grip on her wrist tightened until she could feel her pulse thumping against his fingers. He laughed, a short, humorless sound.

"Done?" He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "You don't go anywhere without my permission. You think you can just walk out?"

"Watch me."

He shoved her back against the marble island. The stone bit into her lower back. He pressed his body against hers, trapping her. It wasn't an embrace. It was a cage.

"I hate it when you get that look in your eyes," he muttered. "Like you're a million miles away. Like you're not even here."

He kissed her. It was punishing. Hard teeth, bruising pressure. There was no affection in it, only a raw, desperate need to assert control. To prove she was still his.

Elle didn't fight him. She went limp, her arms hanging at her sides. She closed her eyes and let the darkness behind her eyelids swallow the room.

When he was finished, he pulled away, breathing hard. He adjusted his shirt, buttoning the cuffs with shaking hands. He didn't look at her face. He couldn't.

He walked to the master bathroom. The door clicked shut. Then the shower started running.

Elle slid down the cabinets to the cold tile floor. She pulled her torn blouse together. She sat there in the dark, listening to the water wash him clean of her, wondering how she was going to survive the morning.

At some point in the dead of night, she must have dragged herself from the cold tiles to the even colder sheets of their bed, because sunlight hit Elle's face like a physical blow. She blinked, her eyelids heavy and swollen. The bed beside her was empty, the sheets cool to the touch.

She sat up, wincing as a dull ache radiated through her lower back. The memories of the previous night rushed back-the grinding noise of the disposal, the cold marble, the way Hunt had looked at her. Like he owned her.

A sound came from the walk-in closet. The slide of a hanger against a metal rod.

Elle wrapped the duvet around herself and walked to the closet door. Her bare feet sank into the plush carpet.

Hunt stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. He was fastening his cufflinks-gold ones, not the sapphires she had destroyed. He saw her reflection in the glass. His eyes were cold, detached.

"You're awake," he said.

Elle leaned against the doorframe for support. "Are you going to explain last night?"

Hunt didn't turn. He adjusted his collar with precise, jerky movements. "Explain what? My schedule isn't something I need to run by you."

"I'm not talking about your schedule."

He paused. For a second, his shoulders tensed. Then he resumed fixing his tie. "You were making a scene. I calmed you down."

"Is that what you call it?" Elle asked. Her voice was raspy. She took a step into the closet. "If I went to the Polo Club with another man, would you be this calm?"

Hunt spun around. The movement was so fast she flinched. He closed the distance between them and grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against his suit.

"You dare," he hissed. The possessiveness in his voice was thick, suffocating.

Elle looked up at him, searching his grey eyes for anything that resembled love. She found only anger and a terrifying need for control.

"Preston says my contract is up for renewal," she said, testing the waters. "Maybe I should find a new sponsor. Someone who doesn't make me feel like a whore."

Hunt's fingers dug into her hip. He grabbed her chin with his free hand, forcing her to look at him.

"In this town," he said softly, "nobody can afford you but me. You're an expensive habit, Elle. Without me, you're nothing but a pretty face in a sea of pretty faces."

The words struck her hard. They confirmed her worst fear: that to him, she was just an asset. An acquisition.

The light in Elle's eyes dimmed. She stopped resisting his grip. She just stood there, defeated.

Hunt seemed to sense the shift. His grip on her chin loosened. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, a ghost of a caress. It was gentle, confusingly tender, completely at odds with his cruel words.

He stared at her mouth, his pupils dilating. For a second, he looked like he wanted to apologize. Or kiss her.

Then he pulled his hand away as if burned. He checked his watch.

"The Gala is tonight," he said, his voice flat again. "Carlyn is bringing your dress. Be ready at seven."

Elle looked down at the floor. "Am I going as your date? Or as a Noble Media employee?"

"As the obedient partner who doesn't cause scenes," Hunt said. He grabbed his briefcase. "Don't embarrass me."

He walked out. The front door slammed, the vibration rattling the crystal chandelier in the hallway.

Elle sank onto the floor of the closet. She touched her neck, where a faint bruise was forming.

Her phone rang. It was her father's assistant.

"Ms. Allison," the voice was crisp, professional. "Mr. Allison wanted to remind you that the family dinner is next week. He insists you come alone. No... guests."

Meaning no Hunt. Her father hated Hunt, not because he treated Elle badly, but because Hunt was more powerful than the Allison family.

"I know," Elle said. She hung up.

She needed to breathe. She walked to the spare room she used as a studio. It was the only room in the penthouse Hunt rarely entered.

She pulled the sheet off the easel. The smell of oil paint and turpentine calmed her instantly.

The canvas showed a profile. A boy bathed in sunlight, his messy hair catching the light. His face was blurred, unfinished, more a feeling than a person.

Elle picked up a brush. Her hand hovered over the canvas. She tried to recall the curve of his jaw, the exact shade of his eyes.

Nothing. Just a blank space in her mind where the memory should be.

Her hand trembled. The brush slipped, leaving a jagged smear of ochre across the background.

"Damn it." She threw the brush across the room. It hit the wall with a clatter.

Hunt was erasing her. He was filling up every corner of her mind with his coldness, pushing out the few fragments of herself she had left.

Her phone buzzed again. A text from Carlyn.

Wear red tonight. Burn the bitch down.

Elle stared at the message. Burn it down.

She typed back: Okay.

She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Tonight was the Gala. The biggest social event of the season.

She would give Hunt one last chance. One final, desperate attempt to bridge the gap between his wallet and his heart.

And if he failed?

She would burn it all down.

The flashbulbs were blinding. A wall of white light erupted as soon as the limousine door opened.

Elle stepped onto the red carpet. The dress Carlyn had chosen was a weapon. Deep crimson silk, backless, with a plunging neckline that stopped just short of scandal. It clung to her like a second skin.

Hunt stepped out behind her. His hand settled on the small of her back. It felt heavy, possessive.

"It's too low," he muttered in her ear, his voice tight.

He shifted his stance, angling his body to block the photographers from getting a side view of her chest.

"Smile," Elle whispered through gritted teeth.

A woman approached them. She was tall, blonde, and carried a glass of champagne like a scepter. The woman from the photo.

"Hunt," the woman cooed. She ignored Elle completely. "I didn't think you'd make it after our late night."

Elle felt Hunt's hand twitch against her back.

"Business doesn't stop for sleep, Allegra," Hunt said smoothly.

Allegra turned her gaze to Elle. Her eyes raked over the red dress. "A daring choice. Very... Hollywood."

"Thank you," Elle said. "It takes confidence to wear red."

Hunt didn't defend her. He didn't tighten his grip or pull her closer. He just checked his watch. "We should go inside. The board members are waiting."

He steered Elle away, leaving Allegra smirking in their wake.

Inside, the ballroom was a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns. Elle felt like a prop. A shiny hood ornament on Hunt's expensive life.

"I need air," she said.

Hunt frowned. "We just got here."

"I need air, Hunt."

She walked toward the terrace doors without waiting for him.

The night air was crisp, carrying the metallic scent of the city. Elle walked to the stone railing and looked out at the Manhattan skyline. The lights blurred into streaks of gold and white.

Footsteps crunched behind her. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted over.

"You're being dramatic," Hunt said. The click of his lighter was sharp in the quiet.

Elle turned. He was leaning against the wall, smoking. He looked tired.

"Hunt," she said. Her voice shook. "Let's get married."

Hunt froze. The flame of his lighter flickered and died. He slowly lowered the cigarette, staring at her as if she had started speaking a foreign language.

"You've had too much champagne," he said.

"I'm sober. I'm serious." Elle took a step toward him. "Three years, Hunt. We live together. We sleep together. Don't you think it's time?"

Hunt dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his shoe. He let out a short, incredulous laugh.

"Time for what? A contract negotiation?"

"For a commitment."

He pushed off the wall and walked toward her, towering over her. "Elle, don't mistake my generosity for weakness. Marriage is a merger of assets. It's business."

He looked down at her, his eyes cold and calculating. "What collateral do you bring to the table? Your failed acting career? Your family's debt?"

The words were physical blows. They punched the air out of her lungs.

"Is that all I am?" she whispered. "A bad investment?"

Hunt's jaw tightened. "You're the one trying to change the terms of the deal. If you want more money, tell Preston. Don't try to trap me with sentimental garbage."

He checked his watch again. "I have a meeting with the senator in five minutes. Go home. Driver is waiting."

He turned his back on her.

Elle stood there, the wind whipping the hem of her red dress around her legs. She watched him walk away, watched the broad set of his shoulders, the arrogant tilt of his head.

She didn't cry. The tears had dried up somewhere between the "merger of assets" and "failed career."

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. She typed a message to Carlyn.

Initiate Plan B.

Then she dialed a number.

"Preston," she said when the assistant answered. "I need to see you tomorrow morning. At the office."

"Ms. Allison?" Preston sounded confused. "Mr. Noble already instructed me to draft the renewal papers for the apartment lease..."

"Not the lease," Elle cut him off. "The separation. I want to discuss the termination of my contract."

"Oh." Preston paused. "I... I see. I'll clear the schedule."

Elle hung up.

Inside the ballroom, Hunt sat in the back of his town car. He loosened his tie, his chest feeling tight.

He reached into his jacket pocket. His fingers brushed against a small, velvet box. It wasn't an engagement ring. It was a diamond tennis bracelet. A beautiful, expensive leash. Something to quiet her down for another few months.

He had planned to give it to her tonight.

But she had pushed him. She had tried to corner him.

He slammed the partition shut. "Drive."

On the terrace, Elle finished her champagne in one gulp. She set the glass on the railing.

She adjusted her strap, lifted her chin, and walked back into the party. She smiled at the cameras. It was the best performance of her life.