Please Come Back, My Love novel Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Elena: POV

Two days.

I’d stayed home for two goddamn days, locked away in that sprawling Billionaire’s Row mansion like a wounded animal. The hickeys on my neck had faded to pale shadows–barely there, but still visible if you looked close enough.

I dabbed concealer over the marks this morning, my hand shaking as I stared at my reflection. Hollow eyes. Forced smile. A diamond ring hidden under my sweater on a silver chain, pressed against my heart like a brand.

My other hand drifted to my stomach–still flat, showing no signs of the life growing inside. How long could I keep this secret?

Mrs. Sterling, I thought bitterly. What a fucking joke.

The driver dropped me off at Sterling Fashion HQ at eight sharp.

The moment I stepped off the elevator, I knew something was wrong.

The usual or died down. Heads turned. Whispers started–not even subtle, just loud enough for me to heat every word.

“Did you see the news?”

“Victoria Astor’s back from Paris!”

“Finally. Poor thing’s been waiting three years.”

My stomach dropped–and not from morning sickness.

I kept my eyes forward, walking toward my desk with my shoulders straight, even though my legs felt like they might give out.

“Morning, Elena.” Sarah from accounting appeared at my elbow, her smile saccharine sweet. “You look tired.”

“Just working on the spring collection,” I said evenly, sliding into my chair.

“Mmm.”

She leaned against my desk. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to rest soon. Once Mr. Sterling’s real fiancée comes back, I mean.”

My fingers froze on the keyboard.

They walked a ghing, their heels clicking like gunshots.

I sat there, staring blank screen, hands clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms.

The real Mrs. Sterling. The words echoed like a death sentence.

Three years. I’d given him three fucking years. And now I was carrying his child–a child he didn’t even know about. And he’d flown to Paris to personally escort Victoria home like she was some kind of queen.

While I hid in the shadows like the dirty secret I was.

My phone buzzed. A text from Marcus:

[Mr. Sterling moved the afternoon meeting to The Whitmore Club. 2 PM. Client prefers private setting. Car will pick you up at 1:30.]

The Wh club. One of Manhattan’s most exclusive private clubs.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

The morning dragged on like torture. Every time someone walked past, I heard whispers: