Chapter 2: Elena Left Without A Word
Reginald's POV
Goddamn that woman!
Elena's words kept echoing in my head as I sped through Manhattan's empty streets in my Rolls-Royce.
Three years. Three fucking years of this charade. And now she pulls this shit? My mind kept drifting back to that night, the memory hitting me like a sucker punch straight to the gut.
That damn dinner party at the Stewart Villa? Nothing but a setup. Everyone had stared when I'd strutted in like the hotshot CEO. Looking back, it was really talking about walking straight into a bear trap with both eyes open.
Old man Stewart had pushed Elena on me all night, like she was merchandise. "Meet my Stanford grad daughter."
Elena had played her part perfectly—tight black dress, flirtatious glances, "accidental" touches. She had kept refilling my scotch glass. "Special occasion," she'd said with that fake smile.
By midnight I'd been wasted, making a fool of myself. Adam had driven me home, practically carried me to my room. "Boss, you're gonna have one hell of a hangover." he had warned. If he had only known what was coming.
Then, right as planned, Elena had showed up at my door in a thin silk robe. "Just checking on you," she had said, playing innocent.
She had then pulled that oldest trick in the book - had "accidentally" spilled water all over herself, ensuring that silk robe had become practically transparent. What had followed was a blur of passion - her nails had raked across my back, her theatrical moans had echoed through the rooms, loud enough to wake every sleeping soul in the estate.
The next morning, Adam's call had woken me up with the worst hangover ever. "Boss, you need to see this right now."
I'd checked his link, blood freezing. Photos of Elena entering my place had been all over social media. Financial news already speculating about a merger through marriage. I'd been played from the start.
Right on schedule, the Stewarts had shown up at my door two hours later. Elena had played the innocent victim, while her father had paced around my living room, acting all self-righteous.
"This is outrageous, Reginald," he had shouted, slamming his fist on my coffee table. "You've destroyed my daughter's reputation!" Then had come his real agenda: I had to marry Elena to "save their family name," and how "beneficial" it would be for both companies.
He had even pulled out a pre-written prenup. With press outside and board members calling, I had had no choice.
For three years I've been living this lie, watching Elena play the perfect wife in public. And now she wants a divorce, but claims she doesn't want anything else? Bull-fucking-shit! A woman who schemes her way into marriage doesn't just walk away empty-handed.
I just drove away in my car, not knowing where to go. I couldn't stop thinking about what she'd said. My chest felt tight and I just needed to get away.
Ended up checking into a hotel - anywhere was better than going home. I knew I wouldn't get any sleep that night anyway. And I was right—spent hours staring at the ceiling, mind racing with anger.
The next morning, eyes burning from lack of sleep, I dragged myself to the Vanderbilt Estate, my eyes automatically scanning every corner. The fresh air had the sweet smell of the orchids that my grandfather, Richard, had taken such good care of.
Normally, at this time, I'd find Elena and Grandpa standing together, talking about how the orchids were growing. Her laugh would fill the air.
But today, just Grandpa's flowers blooming quietly. Their scent hung there, but no Elena.
Just then, Martha, our old butler, hustled over with fresh coffee. I tried to sound casual. "Mrs. Vanderbilt hasn't shown up yet?"
She wouldn't look me in the eye. After a bit of hesitation, she finally said in a whisper, "No, sir. Do you want me to call her?"
"Don't bother." My voice came out harsher than I intended. In three years, Elena had never missed a day visiting Grandpa. Not one. That thought made my stomach turn.
Then Grandpa's demanding voice came from his greenhouse as he didn't even look up from his precious plants. "Where's Elena?"
"No fucking clue. Crashed at a hotel last night." I shrugged, trying to look indifferent.
"Have you lost your damn mind?" Grandpa snapped, finally looking at me with those steel-gray eyes.
"Since when do I need a permission slip to sleep somewhere else?" I shot back, my temper flaring.
He glared at me, his face reddening. "Everything a Vanderbilt heir does needs the family's approval."
He noticed the servants lowering their heads, pretending not to eavesdrop on our little family drama. Then he growled, "Get your ass upstairs. Now."
In his study, he shoved his tablet in my face. The headline hit me like a ton of bricks: #VivianDrakeAffair trending - Mystery Mogul Caught with Emmy Winner.
The photos were everywhere. It was just me helping Vivian after she twisted her ankle outside some restaurant. But the media had turned a simple act of being nice into a huge scandal.
"It's not what it looks like," I started to explain, but Grandpa's cold laugh cut me off.
"If it's not true, then fix it," he barked, slamming his fist on the desk. "This mess you've created—have you even thought about what it does to Elena and the Stewarts?"
The thought of Elena running to him and playing the victim made my blood boil. "What the hell does it have to do with her?"
"Don't play stupid with me!" he exploded, and hurled his teacup straight at me.
I jumped out of the way, and the cup smashed on the carpet.
Grandpa stood there, chest heaving, his voice shaking with anger. "As long as I draw breath, that woman will never be a real Vanderbilt! Don't make the same mistake as your father!"
Hearing him mention my father really got to me. I forced myself to take a deep breath and said, "I know."
His face softened just a fraction. After we discussed some business stuff—the only language we both really spoke—I walked out of his study. The weight of the Vanderbilt name felt heavier than ever on my shoulders.
After leaving the estate, I frowned as I called my assistant, Adam, ordering him to make that TikTok trend vanish.
By evening, I found myself parked outside my Fifth Avenue apartment - habit, or maybe just nowhere else to go.
Taking the elevator up, the day's chaos still spun in my head - Elena's divorce, Grandpa's rage, those headlines. The doors opened and I froze. Something was off. The lights I always left off were on. A half-empty wine glass sat on the coffee table - definitely not mine. Then I caught an unfamiliar jasmine perfume in the air - too sweet, too strong.
My fingers tightened around my keys as I noticed high heels carelessly tossed by the sofa, a white jacket draped over my armchair. A figure in white was standing by the window, the city lights creating a silhouette I didn't immediately recognize.
"Why the hell are you still here?" I demanded, my voice echoing in the quiet space. When she didn't answer, I kept pushing. "Didn't we just sign the divorce papers?"
The silence felt wrong - too playful, lacking Elena's usual measured grace. Before I could process what was happening, the figure spun around.