My Possessive Elijah

"Where are you?" Elena’s voice was a fragile thread, snapping the heavy silence of the bridal suite. The room was a monument to a perfect union—white lilies, flickering candles, and silk sheets—yet it felt like a tomb.

On the other end of the line, Morgan’s breathing was shallow, hurried.

"I’m handling something," he said, his tone clipped. "I’ll be back later."

Elena bit her lip until she tasted copper, fighting the cold dread pooling in her stomach.

"It’s our wedding night, Morgan. You swore you’d be here." A pause stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Finally, he exhaled a sharp breath.

"Elena, plans change. Just wait."

"Wait?" She let out a hollow, jagged laugh. "The guests are gone. The sun is almost up. You’ve disappeared without a word on our first night as husband and wife, and your only advice is to wait?"

"I said I’m coming back," Morgan’s voice dropped an octave, turning icy. "Don't make a scene over something so trivial."

Trivial.

The word felt like a physical blow. This was the night she had envisioned for a year—the night she finally belonged to the man she had allowed herself to love.

"What could be more important than your wife?" she whispered, her voice fracturing.

"You wouldn't understand. Go to sleep, Elena."

Click!

The dial tone was a deafening rejection. Elena sat in the center of the vast, empty bed, the shadows of the room closing in. She thought of the sounds she’d heard before he picked up—the rhythmic, labored breathing, the muffled catch of a woman’s voice in the background.

Her heart twisted.

She wasn’t a fool.

"Is this the 'fire' you wanted to play, Morgan?" she hissed at their pre-wedding portrait on the wall.

They looked so happy in the gold frame—a lie she had paid for with her heart. If it hadn't been for her grandmother's medical bills and the debt her family owed, she would never have stepped into this gilded cage. But she had stayed because she thought he cared.

Hours later, the click of the heavy oak door roused her from a fitful, tear-stained sleep. She had traded her gown for a simple white kimono, her body aching from the coldness of the room.

Morgan stepped in. He moved with a predatory grace, trying to be silent, but he couldn't hide the scent.

The delicate aroma of wedding roses was scorched away by a heavy, cloying perfume—the scent of musk and expensive jasmine that didn't belong to Elena. As her vision cleared, she saw him: his tuxedo shirt was unbuttoned, his hair uncharacteristically disheveled.

"You’re home," she said, her voice flat. Morgan wasn't startled. He arched an eyebrow, his expression a mask of cool indifference.

"I told you I’d be back." Elena stood up, the silk of her robe hissing against the floor. She walked toward him until the stranger's perfume was sickeningly clear.

"Who is she, Morgan?" He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was a cold, pitying curve of the lips.

"You’re being paranoid, Elena."

"Paranoid?" She stepped into his space, her eyes burning. "You reek of another woman. You left your own wedding to lie in someone else's bed. Do I look like a puppet you can toss aside?"

"Elena, don't be dramatic," he muttered, turning his back on her as if she were a nuisance.

"I don't have the energy for a tantrum." He walked toward the closet, but he wasn't undressing. He pulled out a sleek black suitcase and began tossing clothes into it with practiced efficiency.

"What are you doing?" Elena’s voice went hoarse. Morgan didn't turn around, just busily folding clothes and neatly packing them into the large black suitcase on the floor.

"I'm leaving for a few days," he answered shortly, as if the decision needed no further explanation. Elena bit her lip, her heart clenching.

"Leaving? We just got married, and now you're leaving? Am I not important to you, Morgan?"

Morgan finally paused for a moment, looking at Elena with a flat stare that only hurt her more.

"Elena, you know that this marriage isn't because of love. We both know that this is just a family obligation for business purposes, right."

Elena's eyes widened, and pain immediately enveloped her. Morgan's words felt like a devastating blow to her chest.

"You... you really don't have any feelings for me at all?"

Morgan shrugged indifferently, calmly folding another shirt.

"That's not the issue. It's just about priorities, and right now, I have more important things to handle."

Elena clenched her fists, trying to control the storm of emotions inside her.

"So I'm not important? Even after we're married, I'm still not important to you?"

"Don't be so dramatic, Elena. I'll be back. You can live quietly in this mansion, and we can pretend this marriage is going just fine."

Elena stared at the nearly full suitcase, realizing that she truly was not a priority in the life of the man who had just become her husband.

"Who did you spend tonight with, Morgan? Answer me," she demanded, this time her voice firm, wounded but no longer hesitant.

Morgan sighed and zipped up his suitcase.

"You don't need to know. You'll only make things harder for yourself by finding out more than you need to know."

Elena felt her last bit of strength crumble. She stared at Morgan with a mix of hatred and pain.

"You didn't just betray me, Morgan. You destroyed the trust I built for this marriage."

Morgan only gave her a flat look, picked up his suitcase, and walked toward the door.

"Morgan!" Elena called out, hoping there was some shred of feeling left that could stop him.

But the man didn't stop. Without looking back, Morgan only said, "Don't make your life more complicated, Elena. This is for the best."

The door closed softly behind him, leaving Elena alone in the silent room, accompanied only by the shadow of the happiness she had once dreamed of and the bitter reality now haunting her.

"Just you wait, I'll find out who you're with," Elena murmured, then reached for her phone sitting on the nightstand.