Elona's POV
I didn’t think leaving would feel like this.
I stood in the hallway in my VFS uniform which was black leggings clinging to my legs, the cropped top tight across my ribs, it felt like I was wearing the wrong skin. My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache except for my Endo, but it was nothing compared to the hollow pressure sitting behind my breastbone.
Tristan lifted one of my bags from the floor, and then another. His movements were controlled and too precise, like if he slowed down, something inside him would split open. I watched him when he wasn’t looking. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. His jaw was tense, the strength in his shoulders weighed down by something invisible and heavy. He looked older this morning, not by years but by loss.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly, as if reading my thoughts. He turned towards me, his voice steady. “Everything is okay.” He tried to reassure me. I just nodded because it was easier than speaking.
We walked toward the front door together. Each step felt like I was tearing myself away from something that had once felt like safety. And that's when I saw her. Camille sat on the sofa in the lounge with one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through her phone like nothing in the world was burning down around her. She didn’t even look up at first, she just smirked, the corner of her mouth lifting like she had already won.
“Well,” she said lightly, finally glancing up at us. “All the best to the both of you. Looks like it’s going to be one bitch of a day.” Her eyes flicked to me, and then to Tristan.
Tristan groaned under his breath and didn’t dignify her with a response. He opened the door, holding it for me. I followed him out, my chest was tight, and my hands were trembling at my sides. The morning air hit me like a slap. Tristan was already dressed in a suit, tailored, immaculate, the kind he wore to boardrooms and battles as always. It felt wrong seeing him like that now, like armor when what he really needed was rest.
We barely made it down the steps and I froze in my spot. The end of the driveway was crowded, people, cameras, microphones, flashes exploding like gunfire. Paparazzi. So many of them. They surged forward the moment they saw us, voices overlapping, shouting, and accusing.
“Mr. Crane! Is she the one you got pregnant?”
“Elona! Were you forced into the relationship?”
“Is this why Grace filed charges?”
“Did you make her get an abortion?”
“Did Grace really cause the miscarriage?”
“Is he holding you against your will?”
“Are you guilty, Tristan?”
My blood went cold.
Each question felt like a blade, slicing through whatever fragile strength I had left. My ears rang. My heart slammed so hard I thought I might pass out right here in the driveway.
Tristan said nothing. He moved in front of me instinctively, his body shielding mine as he placed my bags in the back of the car. His jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitching beneath his skin.
The flashes were blinding. The noise were unbearable. I wanted to scream, or cry, or disappear.
I got into the car, when the car door finally shut beside me, the sound was muted, like someone had shoved the world underwater. My breath came out in a shaky rush. My hands were shaking uncontrollably in my lap. Tristan slid into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and sat there for a moment with his eyes forward, and his shoulders rigid. And then finally, he inhaled deeply and slowly as if he was forcing himself not to shatter.
The engine started, and we pulled out as the paparazzi banged on the car, shouting, chasing, and the flashes still firing. I flinched at every sound, my body was on edge, and fear was crawling up my spine.
Only when they all disappeared out of sight behind us did I realize I had been holding my breath.
***
The ride to VFS was silent. It wasn't uncomfortable, it was just heavy. I stared out the window, watching the city blur past, my reflection ghosting across the glass. I felt exposed, bruised, even small.
“I won’t drop you at your apartment,” Tristan said eventually, his voice was low. “I don’t want them following you there. I won’t risk that.”
I nodded again. Words felt useless.
We pulled up in front of VFS. Another battlefield. Tristan turned towards me. For a moment, he didn’t look like a powerful man or a CEO or someone the world was tearing apart. He just looked tired. Defeated in a way that broke something inside me. He reached over to me and cupped my face gently, his thumb brushing my cheek.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “I will text you later. Just-please let me know when you’re safe at the apartment.” His voice cracked slightly. “I’m sorry... For all of this.” There was pain in his eyes this time.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Please don’t apologize.”
He kissed me softly and carefully like I might break. Then he got out of the car and I did the same. Ignoring the curious glances and whispers that followed us. He helped carry my bags inside VFS. He moved towards me and pressed his lips against mine before pulling away and saying, "I love you," before turning and leaving. I only whispered my "I love you too" a bit too late. He was already walking towards the exit of VFS. I stood there watching him go, my chest aching as the doors closed behind him.
“There you are,” Jasmine said brightly, swooping in to take one of my bags. “Come on, I’ve got you.” Her warmth was immediate, and grounding. We walked together toward the studio, and for the first time that morning, I breathed. She glanced at me sideways. “Rough morning?”
“That’s… one way to put it.”
She snorted softly. “Let me guess, the paparazzi?”
“And accusations,” I added quietly.
Her expression darkened. “I hate them.”
We talked as we walked, about nothing and everything. She told me about her cat knocking over a lamp at three in the morning. I told her about how sore my legs still were from drills. She joked about how coffee should be considered a legal requirement in this building.
My bags were placed by my locker. I felt the stares immediately. The whispers. The way the other girls’ eyes flicked over me like I was something contagious. Jasmine leaned in. “Delance isn’t in today.”
My heart skipped. “Why?”
She hesitated, then pulled out her phone. “Court thing.” She turned the screen toward me.
A live news broadcast filled it.
A journalist stood outside a courthouse, a microphone in hand with her expression grave. “...media storm surrounding Crane Industries CEO Tristan Crane intensifies today as allegations involving a former student, Grace, now revealed to be connected to industry figures, are brought forward. Sources claim there may be photographic evidence and conflicting testimonies. Legal experts say this hearing could significantly impact Mr. Crane’s public standing and future business dealings-” Behind her, footage played of Tristan entering the courthouse earlier, his face was unreadable, surrounded by flashing cameras.
My chest tightened painfully. “He looks… tired,” I whispered.
Jasmine squeezed my arm. “He’s strong.”
The journalist continued, her voice steady and relentless. “If proven false, the repercussions for those involved could be severe. However, if substantiated, this case may expose deeper systemic issues within elite institutions-” The video cut as footsteps echoed through the entrance. Tristan walked inside. The reporters shouted questions. He ignored them all. My heart broke all over again.
“Rehearsal,” Jasmine said quickly, placing her phone into her bag at the mirror. “Delance wanted everyone running drills today.”
So we did.
I walked. I practiced. I pushed.
But my mind never left him.
Not for a second.