Chapter 228

Elara’s POV

The tea room smelled like jasmine and old money. Private booths lined the back wall, each one sealed behind heavy velvet curtains. I’d chosen this place because it was discreet. Because women of status came here to gossip, not to watch.

I needed that invisibility today.

I sat in the farthest booth, hands folded on the lacquered table, waiting. My tea had gone cold. I hadn’t touched it.

The curtain swept aside. Gareth stepped in.

He looked the same. Always the same. That self-satisfied tilt of his jaw. That lazy, predatory smile that used to make my stomach flutter when I was young and foolish enough to believe it meant something.

Now it made my skin crawl.

He slid into the seat across from me, leaning back like he owned the room. His eyes traveled down my body with open, deliberate slowness.

“Ela.” He drew the name out like honey. “You look… well. Motherhood suits you. Still tight in all the right places, I see.”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“Sit down and shut your mouth, Gareth.”

His grin widened. “Cold. I like it. You were never this sharp when we were together. My brother’s been sharpening you.” He tilted his head. “Or is that the problem? Not enough sharpening lately?”

“I didn’t come here for your commentary.”

“No.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You came because your perfect husband isn’t so perfect after all. And it’s eating you alive.”

The words landed exactly where he intended. I felt them like a blade sliding between ribs. But I kept my face still. Stone. Ice.

“You said you had evidence,” I said. “Magical footage. That’s what your letter claimed.”

“Did it?” He affected surprise. Badly. “I said I had information. Maybe I exaggerated about the footage.”

My jaw tightened. “You don’t have the recording.”

“I never said I had a recording.” He spread his hands. “I said I knew things. Details. Specifics.”

I should have left. Should have stood up right then and walked out. But my body wouldn’t move. Because beneath the disgust, beneath the fury, there was something else. Something desperate and terrified that needed to know.

“Then talk,” I said. “Before I decide this was a waste of my time.”

Gareth’s smile turned ugly. Hungry. He was enjoying this. Every second of it.

“You know, Ela, it’s funny. All those years ago, you chose me. Remember? You actually thought I was going to be your happy ending.” He laughed softly. “And now here you are. Begging your ex-fiancé for dirt on your husband. How the mighty have—”

“Isolde told me about you.”

He stopped.

“She was quite detailed, actually.” I kept my voice flat. Conversational. Like I was discussing the weather. “She said you couldn’t last five minutes. That she’d had longer sneezing fits.”

The color drained from his face. Then flooded back. Dark. Furious.

“She’s a lying—”

“Five minutes, Gareth.” I held up my hand, fingers spread. “That’s what she said. I’d feel sorry for her, but she chose you. We all make our mistakes.”

His throat worked. A vein pulsed at his temple. For a moment I thought he might lunge across the table.

Good. Let him choke on it.

“You—” He hissed through his teeth. His fists clenched on the tabletop. “You always were a cold little—”

“The information. Now. Or I leave, and you lose the only entertainment you have left in your pathetic life.”

The silence between us was toxic. Thick with old wounds and fresh poison.

Then Gareth grabbed a napkin from the table. He pulled a pen from his coat and began writing. Hard. The nib nearly tore through the paper.

“The Sapphire Inn,” he said as he wrote. “Third floor. The Royal Suite.” He underlined the words twice, then kept going. “They checked in around ten at night. Didn’t leave until noon the next day.”

My chest constricted. But I kept breathing. In. Out. Steady.

“The corridor guards will remember them,” Gareth continued, still scribbling. “The magic lift attendants too. They saw them together. Going up. Not coming down until morning was long over.”

He slid the napkin across the table. I looked down at the cramped, angry handwriting. Letters pressed so deep they left grooves in the paper.

The Sapphire Inn. Floor 3, Royal Suite. ~10pm check-in. Noon departure. Corridor guards. Lift attendants. They saw everything.

“There.” Gareth leaned back. His composure was returning, but his cheeks were still flushed. “That’s what you wanted. Go check for yourself.”

I picked up the napkin. My fingers didn’t tremble. I wouldn’t give him that.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked quietly.

His smile was a wound. Raw. Twisted. “Because I want to watch his world burn the way he burned mine. And you—” His gaze raked over me again. “You’re the match.”

The revulsion hit me like a wave. Not just at him. At the situation. At the fact that I was sitting across from a man who fed on chaos like oxygen. Who wanted nothing from this except the pleasure of watching destruction unfold.

“You’re sick,” I said.

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “But I’m not the one who spent the night in an inn suite with a woman who isn’t his wife.”

I stood. The chair scraped against the floor.

“Go to hell, Gareth.”

“Already there, Ela. Already there.”

I walked out without looking back. Through the curtain. Past the other booths. Through the elegant main room where women sipped imported teas and whispered behind painted fans.

My attendant was waiting by the entrance. He fell into step beside me immediately.

“My lady, while you were inside, a courier attempted to deliver a message. Unmarked. No sender identified.”

“From him?”

“I believe so. He’s been sending similar notes lately.”

“Intercept everything. I don’t want his letters reaching me.”

“Already done, my lady.”

I stepped outside. The cold hit me immediately. Sharp. Biting. The kind of cold that stripped away pretense and left nothing but raw sensation.

I stood on the street and breathed.

The Sapphire Inn. Fifteen blocks from here. A twenty-minute walk, or a ten-minute carriage ride. Not far. Not far at all.

Part of me wanted to crumple the napkin. Throw it into the gutter. Go home. Pretend this morning never happened. Pretend Gareth’s words were just venom from a bitter man with nothing left but spite.

But I couldn’t.

Because the marks on Seraphine’s neck were real. Because her sudden disappearance was real. Because my husband’s blank, haunted expression when I’d asked him what happened—that was real too.

And because not knowing was killing me slower than the truth ever could.

I could live with pain. I had lived with pain my entire life. What I could not live with was the not knowing. The maybe. The perhaps. The lying awake at night wondering if the man sleeping beside me had held someone else the way he held me.

I looked down at the napkin in my hand. The ink was already smearing from the heat of my palm. But the words were still legible.

The Sapphire Inn. Floor 3. Royal Suite.

I could take a carriage. It would be faster. Easier. I could sit behind curtains and arrive composed and prepared.

But I didn’t want easy. I wanted every step. Every aching, freezing, miserable step between here and that inn. I wanted to feel the ground beneath my feet and know that each stride was a choice. My choice. Not something done to me. Not something arranged or orchestrated by men who thought they could direct my life like pieces on a board.

I was done being moved.

I started walking. My steps carried me forward. One step. Another. And another. The napkin crumpled in my fist.