Chapter 723 Elliot, I Miss You Very Much 1
The night was thick as ink.
The black Cullinan melted into the darkness, its form slowly disappearing from Molly's sight.
The red taillights flared briefly, like a firework on a winter holiday—brilliant for a heartbeat, then gone.
"Elliot... I miss you," she whispered into the cold air.
Blood seeped from the torn skin on her knee, dripping one crimson bead at a time onto the dull concrete. Her small face was so pale she looked almost spectral under the streetlight.
Suddenly, the car ahead stopped.
Tears clung to the corners of her eyes. Her lips trembled, but she forced a fragile smile.
"Elliot!" she called out.
She ran toward him, forgetting the pain in her knee, forgetting the rule he had set—that she was never to appear before him again. All she wanted was to reach him, to see his face, to have one more chance.
But when she was three feet away, she froze. The man in the driver's seat was as untouchable as the night sky. She stood there like a child caught doing something wrong, staring up at an unyielding parent.
Elliot, nearly six-foot-two, sat with effortless poise. His profile was sharp, his features carrying the unmistakable bloodline of the Windsor family. There was an edge to him, a kind of restrained power that drew the eye.
Molly, barely five-foot-three, looked impossibly small in front of him.
She tried to speak, but the night wind stole her words.
At last, Elliot turned his head.
His gaze dropped to the cigarette between her fingers. A cold, humorless laugh escaped him. "Aren't you a big star now? Why not keep up the act? If your fans knew their idol was once a street girl who made her living targeting men, how heartbroken would they be?"
His voice cut sharper. "Or maybe you wouldn't care. Because in your world, there's only ever been profit—never an ounce of sincerity. People like you don't even know what sincerity is."
"It's not true," Molly said quickly.
But when she met his eyes—those eyes iced over with contempt—her voice died in her throat.
She flicked the cigarette away as if she could rid herself of her past as easily. But the past clung to her, just as his hatred did.
He still looked at her the way he always had after the truth came out—like she was garbage.
Molly's body went rigid. She lowered her head and spoke softly, almost to herself. "Elliot... is there really nothing I can do to make it right?"
His eyes were bottomless as he answered, "No."
He expected her to walk away. To retreat in humiliation. But she didn't. She stood her ground.
"Elliot, my feelings were real," she said, her voice shaking. "I loved you. I still do. Can't you love me again? Please."
She let go of every shred of pride she had left, begging him for forgiveness.
But how could he? Because of a stupid bet and a cruel joke from her gang, his arm would never play again. Because of her, he had lost all faith in love. To forgive her would be to admit that everything he had felt for her had been a joke.
His mouth twisted into a cold smile. "Do you think I'm that pathetic?"
Her heart shattered. She stood there, hands limp at her sides, tears sliding down her cheeks without a sound.
Once, the smallest hurt she suffered would have torn him apart. Now, in the midnight wind, with her blood dripping onto the pavement and her body trembling from the cold, he didn't even flinch.
Love and its absence—so cleanly divided.
After a long silence, Molly whispered, "I understand. I'm sorry for bothering you."
She turned and walked slowly toward her apartment. From her bag, she pulled another slim cigarette, lit it with unsteady fingers, and took a long drag. When she blinked, the tears finally spilled over.
Elliot sat in his car for two full minutes before pulling away.
He didn't know why he had come. Was it just to see her broken? To watch her beg? No. It couldn't be that simple.
He switched on the stereo. A woman's husky voice filled the cabin, raw with sorrow.
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