Chapter 728 Harsh Words, Tender Heart
When Molly stepped out of the bathroom, she was wrapped in the hotel robe. It hung loosely on her frame, making her look even more delicate, almost fragile.
The master bedroom was brightly lit. Elliot had just come from the adjoining bathroom, leaning casually against the massive headboard, flipping through one of the hotel magazines. He hadn't bothered with a robe—only a pair of black trousers clung to his hips, his tall frame all lean muscle and quiet dominance.
Molly avoided looking at the droplets of water still scattered across his skin. She edged closer, bracing one hand on the mattress, half-kneeling beside him, and leaned in to kiss him from memory.
A large hand caught the back of her head, pulling her down to him with a sharp, unhesitating need.
The heat came rushing back—every memory of it.
Elliot didn't stop until well past two in the morning. By the time it was over, Molly was limp, barely able to move. He, on the other hand, looked effortlessly alert, swinging his legs off the bed and heading for the shower. When he came out, he was already dressed in the same clothes he'd worn when he arrived.
Molly stayed curled under the thin sheets, watching as he fastened the last button of his shirt. He looked ready to leave.
"You're going?" she blurted.
Under the crystal chandelier, his expression was relaxed in the aftermath of sex, but his tone was cool. "I don't stay the night."
The small muscles in her face tightened with disappointment, but she didn't let it show.
She thought about getting up to walk him out, but the state she was in made her hesitate.
He noticed, his voice flat, "Don't bother. Leave tomorrow. I'll call you next time."
He picked up her phone from the bed, keyed in his number, dialed it to make sure it saved, and then paused—something unreadable flickering across his face, a trace of self-disgust.
Molly caught it. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Elliot held her gaze for a long moment before grabbing his coat and leaving.
Downstairs, he slid into the driver's seat. The coat lay on the passenger side, carrying a faint trace of red wine and, beneath it, a wisp of jasmine. It pulled him back, unwillingly, to the tangle of bodies in the hotel room.
Molly had been clumsy—still the same as before. Was it real inexperience, or an act? He didn't know. He didn't care to find out.
His hands tightened on the wheel as he pulled away into the empty streets. Once, they would have stayed tangled up until morning, whispering into each other's skin.
Not anymore. Never again.
His jaw flexed, the sharp lines of his profile cutting deeper in the dim light. He wasn't the boy he used to be. The way he handled Molly now could break a person.
Molly stayed in bed until dawn before she could muster the strength to move. If Elliot hadn't shown her mercy last night, she doubted she'd be able to walk today.
His pleasure had been one-sided. She was left trembling, emptied out, every ounce of her stolen away.
She forced herself into the shower, then into the clothes the hotel had sent up. At first light, she took a cab back to her apartment. Outside, the street cleaners were at work, and a water truck rolled past playing its tinny morning tune.
She stood on the curb for a moment, listening.
When she eased the door open, Madeline—the housekeeper who helped care for her grandmother—was already in the kitchen, stirring oatmeal. The air was warm, rich with the smell of breakfast.
Molly lingered in the scent before trying to slip to her room.
Madeline's voice cut through. "Out all night. I didn't even tell your grandmother. Go in quietly, or she'll have your hide."
Molly poked her head into the kitchen. "Got it, Madeline."
Madeline's eyes narrowed. She noticed the change of clothes, the faint marks along Molly's neck. Obvious.
Molly was twenty-two. Having a boyfriend wasn't strange. But in this industry? Madeline worried she was paying too high a price.
"It's not someone from the industry," Molly said softly. "It's someone I care about."
Madeline's expression shifted. "Elliot? Your grandmother talks about him all the time."
Molly's smile was faint, strained.
She changed into her own clothes and thought about what Madeline had said.
Magnolia Lavien—her grandmother—knew of Elliot.
Back when they'd had nothing, Molly would tell her stories about a good man named Elliot who was studying abroad. She'd promised that when he came back, he'd be with Molly, and their family would grow.
Magnolia couldn't see, but she would always smile when she heard his name.
After washing up, Molly went to her grandmother's room. The best bedroom, with the big terrace, was hers—so Madeline could care for her easily.
This morning, Magnolia was already dressed and sitting in a lounge chair, face tilted toward the sun.
She didn't know Molly had been gone all night. She just assumed she'd been out drinking again. "Don't push yourself so hard, sweetheart. You have enough money. Elliot isn't back yet, but when he is, you'll get married and have two children."
Molly's throat tightened. She knelt beside her, resting her head on Magnolia's knee.
Elliot would never forgive her.
Last night, he'd treated her like any other woman—no tenderness, no trace of love. He'd used protection, finished, and left.
She had lost too much already. She didn't dare hope for forgiveness. All she wanted was to stay by his side for three more months. When it was over, she'd pay the 150 million into the account he'd set up for his company. Then she'd leave, taking Magnolia with her.
Magnolia's health was failing. Molly wished she could bring Elliot to her—so she could touch him, even if she couldn't see him, and know for herself how good he was.
Molly buried her face in her grandmother's lap, her voice breaking, "He's busy with school right now. But he'll be back soon. I know you're in pain, but he'll be here before you know it."
Magnolia's blind eyes turned toward the light. She touched Molly's cheek and sighed. "Yes. He'll be back soon."
It was a dream they shared, year after year. But for Molly, it was nothing more than smoke and mirrors.
A week later, Elliot called. "Tonight. Eight. Hotel."
Molly was on set when the call came. She was the lead in the production—beautiful, popular, and in demand. But with big roles came endless dinners with investors.
Today she was filming opposite Katya Sharp, a fifty-something actress who still carried traces of her former beauty.
Katya didn't like her. She resented the younger generation, especially ones like Molly, who hadn't trained formally and were rumored to have powerful backers.
In a scene where she was supposed to smash a vase near Molly, she insisted on doing it for real. She promised she'd control the force. She didn't. The vase struck Molly's head, splitting the skin.
Celine rushed in, furious.
Katya lounged back, smirking. "Young actresses don't want to work for it. They just want a warm bed."
Molly bit her lip.
Celine's retort was sharp. "Ms. Sharp, I'm sure you'd like a warm bed too, but at your age, the only one who'd have you is missing most of his teeth. Molly is in a real relationship. You? You'd be lucky to land a retiree."
The set went silent.
Katya shot to her feet, ready to fight. Celine didn't back down. She knew Elliot hadn't seen Molly in a week, but she also knew he'd given her fifty million.
Celine had no doubt—Molly and Elliot would happen. But a girl that pure was a lamb in the wolf's den of show business. One day, when Molly was draped in silk and running a billionaire's household, Celine only hoped she'd remember who had stood by her. Still, before Elliot's heart truly ached for her, Molly would have to bleed a little.
Just then, Molly's phone buzzed. Elliot.
Molly told him quietly there'd been an accident on set and she couldn't make it to the hotel. He didn't like that. He was nearby. Minutes later, his black Cullinan rolled to a stop outside.
Celine and Katya were still going at it. The director, wary of Katya's old reputation, was trying to smooth things over and telling Molly to take it as part of the job.
Celine exploded. "Bullshit. You do it, then. Or let Katya smash it over your head."
The director told her to watch her language.
She smirked. "You're just picking on Molly because you think she's alone. Katya, you think you're untouchable? Watch this."
She snapped a picture of Molly's bloodied forehead and posted it to her Twitter with the caption: [Learned so much from working with Katya today.]
With over eight million followers, the reaction was instant. Fans lit up the comments, demanding answers, dragging Katya's name through the mud. The story hit the trending list within minutes.
Katya was fuming when the Cullinan's door opened and a six-foot-two man stepped out, every inch of him radiating wealth and control.
Katya froze.
Elliot Windsor. Heir to the Windsor Group. What was he doing here?
She'd dreamed of meeting someone like him, of securing an investment, of reclaiming her place on the screen.
She softened instantly, stepping toward him. "Elliot, what a surprise. I saw your mother at a gala recently—she asked about you."
His brow furrowed. "Do I know you?"
The dismissal stung, but she didn't give up. She opened her mouth to try again.
Katya drew in a breath to speak—then stopped. Elliot was already cutting across the room, eyes fixed on Molly.
Her pulse skipped. Could it be… he'd come for her?
Elliot's eyes darkened at the sight of the crude bandage on her head. "Why is it every time I see you, you're hurt? Who was it this time?"
Katya's voice rose. "Elliot—"
He didn't look at her. "Do I know you? Did I ask you a question?"
Her face flushed with humiliation.
The director read the room and immediately told Katya she was off the project. The role would be recast. Whatever the production lost, he was sure Elliot would cover it.
Elliot seemed satisfied. He bent, scooping Molly up in his arms.
When she squirmed, he tightened his grip. "Stop moving. You've done enough damage. What if you'd ended up brain-dead?"
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