Chapter 19: The Wrong Night

Elina stared blankly at her phone as the scandal exploded across the internet. The video Damon had warned her about—the one Selena secretly recorded the night she drugged him—was now public.

Everywhere.

Every headline. Every gossip channel. Every damn blog.

> "Damon Salvatore and Selena Ryder—intimate footage leaked!"

"Billionaire's affair or trap? Fans divided as scandal unfolds!"

"Is Elina just a temporary obsession?"

Even though she knew Damon was telling the truth—that he had been drugged, that Selena had planned the entire thing—it didn't matter.

The damage was done.

The media ripped her apart, calling her the "other woman," the "new toy," the "nobody who thought she could tame the billionaire beast."

And Damon? He hadn't called in days.

Not since his lawyer made a public statement that had shaken her to her core.

> "To protect his company's reputation and honor prior commitments, Mr. Damon Salvatore will be announcing an engagement with Ms. Selena Ryder. The marriage will be a formality to stabilize public trust."

A formality?

Was she just a formality too?

Elina couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking about that night—the night Damon told her he loved her, made love to her like she was the only woman who ever existed.

Was it real?

Or just his way of escaping the chaos for one night?

Her mind tortured her with doubts. Maybe he said it to keep her close. Maybe he knew the video was coming and wanted to get what he could before walking away.

A week passed. Damon was still on every headline.

But not a single message came through for her.

She felt used. Broken. Disposable.

---

That Friday night, Rose and her brother insisted on taking her out.

"You need to get out of your head," Rose said, handing Elina a shimmering black dress. "We're going to drink, dance, and pretend Damon-freaking-Salvatore doesn't exist."

The bar was loud, crowded, and buzzing with energy. Elina let herself get swept up in it—shot after shot, glass after glass, until her world blurred into music and laughter and too-bright lights.

Taylor was there too. Watching her. Always watching.

She danced, smiled, laughed. But inside, her heart ached.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. Damon. The way he looked at her. The way he touched her. The way he said, "You're mine."

And now, he belonged to someone else.

Or maybe he always did.

Around 2 a.m., Elina stumbled outside to get air, her legs unsteady, her heart heavier than ever.

Taylor followed her, placing his jacket around her shoulders.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

"No," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. "He used me. He said he loved me. And now he's marrying her."

Taylor's jaw clenched. "You don't deserve this."

She looked up at him, dazed. "Maybe I never meant anything to him…"

"That's not true," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "But I wish you'd see the one who's been right here. Always."

Elina was too drunk to think clearly. Too hurt to stop herself.

When Taylor leaned in—slow, gentle, careful—she didn't pull away.

She kissed him.

Soft at first… then rougher. Needy. Desperate.

One kiss became two. Then his arms wrapped around her, lifting her into the backseat of his car, then up the stairs to his apartment. Clothes fell. Whispers spilled. And all the while, in her drunken haze…

She imagined Damon.

His voice. His touch. His name on her lips the seductive imagination on her head she can't control thinking about him. 

Taylor didn't care. He knew. But he still made love to her slowly, passionately—like he'd been waiting for this his entire life.

---

The next morning, sunlight poured through the blinds.

Elina stirred, her head pounding with a brutal hangover. Her throat was dry, her limbs tangled in bedsheets that weren't hers.

And then she turned.

Taylor.

Beside her.

Shirtless. Asleep.

Her stomach dropped.

Memories flashed like broken glass—her drunken kisses, his hands on her body, his lips whispering her name.

"Oh no," she breathed, sitting up and grabbing the sheets to cover herself.

Her dress was on the floor. Her bra tossed on the nightstand.

There was no denying it.

She had slept with Taylor.

And it wasn't love.

It was pain. Regret. Confusion.

She slipped out of the bed as quietly as possible, grabbed her clothes, and tiptoed toward the door.

As she turned the handle, Taylor stirred behind her.

"Elina?" he mumbled, sitting up groggily.

She froze.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I—I can't do this," she whispered.

"You don't have to pretend," Taylor said, voice rough with sleep. "Last night… it meant something."

Her eyes stung. "It wasn't about

you, Taylor. It was about what I lost."

And with that, she left—barefoot, broken, and lost in a storm she couldn't escape.