Chapter 10: Secrets in the Dark

The Escape Attempt

The penthouse was a gilded cage, its opulence suffocating rather than calming. Celeste stood in the middle of her bedroom, her suitcase on the bed, as she filled it with clothes, her hands trembling. The weight of the scandal, the lies, and Elliot's detached indifference had finally come to a head. She could not stay there, not for one more night. Not when every square inch of this house was filled with memories of the lies and the games.

She zipped up the suitcase and grabbed her coat, her resolve hardening with every step. But as she reached the penthouse's private elevator, two security guards stepped into her path, their expressions impassive.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Sloane," one of them said. "Mr. Sloane has instructed us to ensure your safety. You're not to leave the premises."

Celeste's eyes narrowed, her anger flaring. "Excuse me? I'm not a prisoner. Move."

The guards didn't budge. "Our orders are clear, ma'am."

Furious, Celeste turned on her heel and stormed back into the penthouse, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. She found Elliot in his office, seated at his desk, his attention fixed on his computer screen as if nothing was wrong.

"You're keeping me prisoner?" she demanded, slamming her hands on his desk.

Elliot looked up, his expression not altering but his eyes glinting. "I'm protecting what's mine," he said politely.

"Protecting me?" she snapped, her voice climbing. "Or controlling me?"

Elliot did not answer for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair, his gaze unyielding. "You're my wife, Celeste. That leaves you at risk. Until I resolve this, you're better off here."

There was something in his voice—not the cold, controlled voice she was used to, but a softer, more, possessive one. It shocked her, but she would not allow it to disturb her.

"I don't require your protection," she stated, her own voice trembling with anger. "I require my freedom."

Elliot's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he stood and walked to the window, his back to her. "You'll have it. But not yet."

Celeste stared at him, her chest heaving. For the first time, she wondered if his insistence on keeping her close wasn't just about control. Maybe it was about something else entirely.

The First Crack in His Armor

Celeste tossed and turned that night. The penthouse was too quiet, the quiet suffocating her with its weight. She got out of bed and padded through the back rooms, her brain in chaos. She found herself on the roof, the night air refreshing.

Elliot was there, standing by the edge, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn't turn when she approached, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightened on the glass.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, her voice soft.

He didn't answer right away, his gaze fixed on the city skyline. Finally, he said, "You really think I'd sell myself for money?"

Celeste blinked in surprise at the question. "What?"

"That's what you accused me of," he repeated, his voice even. "That I'd use you, control you, for my own benefit."

She stood, unsure how to respond. "I don't know what to believe anymore, Elliot. You're constantly explaining that this is a business transaction, but it feels like it's something else. And then you lock me in here as if I were a prisoner—"

"I'm not locking you in," he snapped, his voice cold. "I'm keeping you safe."

"From what?" she insisted. "Your family? The media? Or from yourself?

Elliot stood in front of her, his expression unreadable. "Everyone's got a price, Celeste. The difference is, some people admit to it."

His words hung between them, heavy with meaning. For the first time, Celeste wondered if he was talking about himself. What price had Elliot paid? And what cost had he paid it with?

The Forgotten File

The next morning, Celeste woke up to an empty penthouse. Elliot was not there anymore, only the faint trace of his cologne and the plaguing sense that something was amiss. She walked into his office, still remembering their evening chat the night before.

As she passed by his office, something on the floor drew her eye—a folder, contents spilled out. She bent down to retrieve it, her own breath catching in her throat as she saw the name on the cover: Natalia Kingston.

Her heart pounding, she opened the folder, reading through the documents inside. A missing persons' report. Last seen: Eight years ago. Elliot Sloane's name mentioned in the inquiry.

Celeste's hands trembled as she flipped through the pages. What was Elliot hiding? And why hadn't he informed her?

The Confrontation

That evening, when Elliot returned home, Celeste sat waiting in the living room, the folder held tightly in her hands. He stopped short when he saw it, his face clouding.

"What are you doing with that?" he snarled, his tone low and menacing.

"Here it is," she said to him, her voice hard though a tempest of fury seethed inside her. "You lost it. Care to explain this to me?"

Elliot's face hardened with rage, his fists at his sides. "Mind your own business."

"It is my business," she snapped back. "You made it my business when you married me. Who is Natalia, Elliot? And why do I see her missing person's report on your desk? Was she missing sometime before the accident?"

For a very long time, Elliot just stared at her, his expression unreadable. And then finally he spoke, "Natalia was someone I loved. Someone who disappointed me. And I won't let anyone else come near enough to do that to me again."

Celeste's heart ached with the raw pain in his tone. She came towards him, her voice soft. "Elliot, you don't have to shut me out. I'm not going to hurt you."

He looked at her, his eyes lighting up with fury. "You don't know that."

"Then show me," she answered, her tone resolute. "Let me in."