Elena's POV

I waited until the sound of footsteps disappeared down the corridor before picking up my phone.

The screen barely lit up before the other end answered — as if he'd been waiting by the phone.

I explained that I needed to stay until after the patriarch's birthday. The voice on the other end was tight with worry and frustration.

It wasn't until I promised — repeatedly — that I would leave with him, that the man on the line finally calmed down.

After I hung up, I leaned back against the headboard. When I'd first reached out to him behind Jason's back, I'd felt a strange, misplaced guilt.

But now — now that the other woman had moved in and was literally drinking my blood — that guilt evaporated in an instant.

Two days later, my body had recovered enough to function.

The estate buzzed with preparations for the patriarch's celebration, and every tedious detail was dumped on me.

I spent nearly every day on the phone. Some calls were about the event. Others were to soothe the man who grew more restless with each passing day.

Meanwhile, Jason and Vicky went out every night and didn't return until the small hours, always making a point of waking me with their affection on full display. I couldn't have cared less.

I was busier than ever. Sometimes I'd be typing replies on my phone even while Jason was in the room.

When I finally looked up, I found him staring at me. I had no idea how long he'd been watching.

That heavy, searching gaze made my skin crawl.

I was about to leave when Vicky materialized behind him, wrapping herself around his arm.

"Jason."

Her voice was syrupy, her chest pressed deliberately against him.

"You haven't spent any time with me today."

She'd clearly bounced back — spirits high, belly rounded, preening like a pampered cat.

Jason didn't push her away. He just looked at me, his tone flat. "You've been busy lately."

I nodded. "The celebration takes a lot of preparation."

Vicky's smile widened. "Funny — I've noticed Elena's been getting a lot of calls and texts."

She tilted her head, her pupils tinged red, her gaze a provocation. "Jason, don't you think that's odd?"

Jason was silent for a moment. Then: "Give me your phone."

The air went still.

I looked at him — at Vicky practically fused to his side — and slowly smiled.

"Jason, are you seriously accusing me of cheating?"

Every servant in the corridor froze.

I held his gaze, my voice unhurried.

"You got another woman pregnant, and now you want to check my phone?"

"What — afraid I might find someone too? That I might bring a man home, just like you did?"

Vicky's face twisted. "Shut up!"

Her hand flew toward my face.

I saw it coming. I simply reached up and caught her wrist in midair.

The corridor went dead silent.

Vicky stared, clearly not expecting me to fight back.

Jason's expression darkened. He pulled Vicky to his side and turned to me.

"Let go."

I released her.

Vicky retreated into Jason's arms, eyes brimming red.

"Jason, she just—"

"Enough."

His voice was frigid.

He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were locked on me.

"When she tried to hit you just now — why didn't you look at me?"

I blinked.

Jason went on: "You used to run to me the second something happened."

His voice dropped low, as if he was barely holding something back. "Why didn't you ask me for help?"

I looked at him and asked, quietly: "Would it have made a difference?"

Jason's expression shattered.

Elena's POV

The air felt like it had turned to stone.

Jason's breathing grew ragged. Fury flooded his pupils, turning them blood-red — the way a vampire's instincts betrayed them when emotions ran too high.

Those crimson eyes looked just like blood.

That color always dragged me back to my parents' final moments. And Vicky — she loved wearing red. Months ago, her red dresses floating around the estate had given me nightmares every night.

I flinched instinctively. The aversion was reflexive, bone-deep.

Jason caught it. His expression froze, and his gaze locked onto me.

I stiffened too.

Because this moment was painfully familiar.

On our wedding night, I'd seen his true form for the first time.

Red eyes. Sharp fangs. He'd been holding me, trying to say something.

I'd pushed him away, stepped back, and turned to clutch a pillow, forcing down the terror, desperate to hide my weakness.

I was still in love with him then. I didn't want him to know how badly my parents' death had scarred me. I didn't want him carrying that guilt.

I'd believed that as long as we had each other, we'd find our way through the darkness.

But after that night, he became a different person.

I couldn't find a single trace of love left in his eyes.

From that day on, Jason became my new nightmare.

Elena's POV

I never understood why Jason resented me so much.

Under the pressure from his Grandfather, he had indeed married me — but he could have simply ignored me and lived his own life. Why did he insist on parading those women in front of me, feeding off my misery?

The corridor had gone deathly quiet.

Vicky started to speak, but Jason had already seized my wrist. His grip was crushing, almost out of control. Before I could react, he was dragging me into a side room.

The door slammed shut behind us.

The heavy wood sealed off every sound from the corridor. It was just the two of us.

Jason's breathing was ragged, as if he was fighting to contain something. One hand still locked around my wrist, the other braced against the wall, caging me between his body and the stone.

"What the hell is going on in your head?"

His voice was dangerously low.

I didn't answer.

I already knew what he wanted to hear.

I just didn't care to say it anymore.

His gaze lingered on my face, searching for something familiar. Rage. Heartbreak. Tears. In the past, I'd always crumbled in front of him. But now I just stood there, still and quiet.

That calmness unsettled him more than any outburst could.

Then he lunged forward.

Before I could react, he had me pinned against the wall.

Cold stone pressed against my back.

Jason's breath fell against the side of my neck.

His pupils had gone fully crimson — a vampire's instinct, laid bare by loss of control. Those eyes were deep as a pool of blood, holding something dangerous and suppressed.

Then I felt his fangs settle against my throat.

Sharp. Cold. One fraction more pressure and they'd pierce the skin.

The silence was suffocating.

Jason didn't bite down.

He held the position, waiting — for me to panic, struggle, or cry.

I did none of those things.

I simply tilted my head back, looked at the ceiling, and asked calmly:

"Is that all?"

He faltered.

"What?"

I turned to face him. Even I was surprised by how calm my own eyes were.

"If I let you drink my blood — if that's what it takes — will you agree to the divorce?"

The words landed like a blow.

His grip tightened violently.

Those red eyes bored into me, searching for any sign that I was bluffing.

"You really want to leave that badly?"

His voice was barely above a whisper, ice-cold.

I didn't answer.

Jason let out a hollow laugh.

There was no warmth in it — only something edging toward madness.

"I see."

He murmured to himself, as if working through a realization.

"So that's what it is."

His hand tightened further. His expression grew tangled and dark.

"You hate me because of your parents. That's it, isn't it?"

His voice went suddenly quiet — as if speaking a truth he'd always known but never dared acknowledge.

"You blame me for their death, don't you?"

I said nothing.

Even now, he was grasping for excuses.

Who was it, really, who couldn't accept what had happened?

He was the one who survived. He was the one who'd spent ten years tormenting me. I'd never once blamed him.

What right did he have to stand here playing the victim?

Jason stared at me, searching my eyes for any flicker of longing or tenderness.

There was nothing.

My silence only pushed him further.

He let out another low, bitter laugh.

"Vicky was right after all."

"You really do look at me like I'm your enemy."

His voice kept dropping.

"So it's true. You really do hate me."

No matter how hard he searched for proof that I still loved him, he would find nothing. It was useless.

He pressed his fangs forward another fraction.

The skin broke. A tiny sting. The faint scent of blood drifted into the air.

I didn't flinch. I didn't struggle.

I just tilted my head back, letting him do as he pleased.

Jason's breathing stuttered.

"Why aren't you pulling away?"

His whisper was hoarse.

"You used to be terrified of this."

When we were young, he'd flash his fangs to tease me and I'd burst into tears, scolding him through the sobs. He'd always take my hand, guide my fingers along his fangs, and tell me not to be afraid — that he'd never hurt me.

Looking at him now, I felt nothing but exhaustion.

Ten years.

Fights. Resentment. Tears. Hysteria.

Every last drop of those emotions had been wrung out of me.

Now, after all the wounds, all that remained was a complete and utter emptiness.

I didn't want to think anymore. I didn't want to salvage anything.

I said softly:

"If this is what it takes for you to let me go."

"Then drink."

Jason's pupils contracted sharply.

I closed my eyes.

My voice was quiet, but perfectly clear.

"It doesn't matter."

"I stopped being afraid of this kind of pain a long time ago."