The Billionaire's Substitute Lover's Escape

Elara POV:

I told the taxi driver to take me to the hospital where Candice was staying. Not the main entrance, but the discreet side door leading to the administrative wing where Dr. Albright's temporary office was located.

As I was paying the driver, Brooks's black town car pulled up to the main entrance. He got out, looking tired but focused, already talking into his phone. He was back from the Caribbean. Of course, he' d come straight here. Straight to her.

Our eyes met across the rain-swept driveway. A flicker of surprise, then irritation, crossed his face. He strode over, ending his call abruptly.

"Elara. What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone wary.

"Just a follow-up appointment," I lied smoothly.

He looked me over, a brief, dismissive glance. I was pale, thinner, with dark circles under my eyes. He was offering a ride. "Come on. I'll take you home."

I got into the car without protest. Resistance was pointless.

The air in the car was thick with an unspoken tension. He drove, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I stared out the window at the blurred city lights.

"I need to pick up Candice," he said, not looking at me. "She's being discharged today. I'm moving her into the penthouse so I can look after her properly."

So, the ghost was not only back, but she was moving in. Taking my room, my bed, my life.

"Fine," I said.

My single-word reply seemed to unnerve him. He glanced at me, frowning. "Are you alright? You're… quiet."

I almost laughed. I had spent two years being quiet, trying to be whatever he wanted me to be. Now that I was truly silent, he finally noticed.

We arrived at the penthouse. He helped Candice out of the car with an almost reverent tenderness, his hands hovering, ready to catch her if she stumbled. He settled her on the living room sofa, fluffing pillows, fetching a glass of water, his every movement radiating a devotion that was physically painful to watch.

He finally turned to me, a flicker of that now-familiar guilt in his eyes. "Elara, we need to talk."

"I'm tired," I said, my voice flat.

"I know. I… I handled things badly. The yacht, the hospital… I was worried about Candice, I wasn't thinking straight." He was trying to apologize, but even his apology was about her.

"You have to understand, Elara. My history with Candice is… complicated. I feel responsible for her."

The words were a dull knife, twisting in an old wound. Responsible for her. Obligated to her. In love with her. What was I? Nothing.

"You should go check on her," I said, my voice devoid of inflection. "She looks like she needs you."

He hesitated, confused by my placid acceptance. He expected tears, accusations. He didn't know how to handle this empty, compliant shell.

A small, contrived cough came from the living room. "Brooks?"

He was gone in an instant, rushing to her side, his back to me.

I walked to my room. Or what used to be my room. I could hear their low murmurs from the living room, his voice a soothing balm, hers a list of delicate complaints.

I spent the next few days as a ghost in my own home. I watched him dote on her, cutting her food into small bites, reading her favorite poetry, tucking her into the master bed at night while I lay awake in a guest room down the hall. I watched him look at her with a love so profound it was a physical presence in the room.

One afternoon, he had to leave for an urgent board meeting.

"I'll only be a few hours," he promised Candice, kissing her forehead. He turned to the household staff. "Make sure Ms. Robinson has everything she needs. Don't let her exert herself."

Then he looked at me, his expression stern. "Elara. Don't bother her."

"I won't," I promised.

He left, and the apartment was quiet for all of five minutes.

Then the music started. Loud, pulsing, bass-heavy music that shook the floorboards. Candice had invited a dozen of her vapid, socialite friends over for a "recovery" party. Champagne flowed, laughter echoed, and the whole penthouse smelled of expensive perfume and cigarette smoke.

I knew the noise and excitement were bad for her heart. For all her manipulation, her condition was real. A small, selfish part of me wanted to let her be, to let her suffer the consequences. But the part of me that was still foolishly human, the part that Brooks had once called "kind," couldn't do it.

I went downstairs. "Candice, maybe you should turn the music down," I said, my voice barely audible over the din. "You need to rest."

A tall, cruel-looking blonde I recognized from the society pages sneered at me. "Who's this? The hired help?"

"She's the charity case Brooks keeps around," another one giggled, shoving me lightly. "The little orphan."

The shove was harder than she intended. I stumbled backward, my head hitting the sharp corner of a marble console table. The same spot Candice had pushed me against in the restroom. This time, the impact was harder.

A sharp, searing pain shot through my skull, and I felt a warm trickle of blood run down my temple.

The music stopped abruptly.

The front door had opened. Brooks was home early. He stood there, his face a thundercloud, taking in the scene: the party, the chaos, and me, standing there with blood on my face.

"What the hell is going on here?" he roared.

I opened my mouth to explain, but Candice's friend pointed a trembling, manicured finger at me.

"She attacked us! She came down here screaming and started throwing things! She's crazy!"