Chapter 732 Before Elliot, She Stood in the Dust 1
Molly froze.
For a long moment, she didn't even register why Elliot was angry. Was it because he preferred her in something more revealing? The thought made her uneasy.
She quickly set down the utensils in her hands. "I'll change," she murmured.
"Go change," he said, his voice low and edged with a shadow she couldn't name.
Molly hurried into the bedroom's walk-in closet. Because Elliot had taken this suite for three months, she often came here to serve him, keeping a few changes of clothes on hand. Now, with him displeased, she slipped out of the light floral dress and into a black off-shoulder cocktail dress.
But as soon as she was dressed, she stopped cold.
Her chest tightened. Her breathing turned shallow, then quickened. The craving hit her hard—sharp, urgent. She needed a cigarette. Needed the burn in her lungs to keep her hands from shaking.
With trembling fingers, she dug one out from her handbag, leaned against the wardrobe, lit it, and drew in a long, greedy breath. The nicotine hit her bloodstream and her pulse steadied, but her body still trembled.
At the doorway, Elliot's voice was cold. "And now you dress like this? Molly, you—"
He cut himself off. His gaze locked on her, on the way the smoke curled from her lips, and something in his expression shifted.
The image dragged him backward in time—to the night she stood among a pack of street girls, cigarette in hand, a bundle of cash clutched tight, selling away something far more than her body.
Molly lifted her eyes and met his stare.
She knew exactly what he was remembering. That scene was burned into both of them. For him, it was a stain. For her, it was a downpour that had never stopped falling.
Her eyes dimmed, her body trembling harder.
In the doorway stood the young, immaculate Elliot—handsome, untouchable—while she, no matter how fine the dress, was still the gutter rat who had once been beaten unconscious in an alley.
Looking at him, she understood the kind of distance that could never be crossed.
She loved Elliot. But she would never have him.
He had words—cutting ones—on the tip of his tongue. But when he saw the tears in her eyes, he swallowed them. He didn't comfort her either. Instead, he left her with a single line.
"Get yourself together and come out."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Okay."
When he left, she stubbed out the cigarette without taking another drag. Even now, when he couldn't see her, she felt the weight of her own disgust. She leaned against the wardrobe until her breathing steadied, then walked toward the small dining area, her heart pounding with unease.
She was afraid of his temper.
But to her surprise, Elliot was calm. He told her to sit and drink the soup. After a sip, he nodded, his mood softening.
In truth, whether Molly sank or swam had nothing to do with him. In three months, they would part ways. He would likely marry someone of equal standing, and she would return to whatever life she could piece together. Her fate—good or bad—would no longer be his concern.
Once he made peace with that, he seemed almost indulgent toward her. Maybe he didn't want to see her cry again. Maybe he simply wanted these three months to pass without bitterness.
"The soup is good," he said at last. "From now on, when you come over, don't smoke. And you don't need to dress like that. This isn't a fashion show."
Molly lowered her head. "Alright."
She turned the thought over in her mind—Elliot's taste, probably a hint of allure wrapped in innocence, but never too much skin. 'Difficult man to please,' she thought.
His dark gaze caught hers. "You're cursing me in your head, aren't you?"
She shook her head quickly. "I would never curse you."
He kept looking at her, something unreadable in his eyes. Molly rose and poured him another small bowl of soup. "If you like it, I'll make more next time."
Elliot didn't answer. He drank in silence.
It was the most peaceful day they'd had since meeting again. No biting remarks, no demands for her body. When the soup was finished, he drove her home like any ordinary boyfriend would.
The black Range Rover waited downstairs. Its high frame made him reach out instinctively to steady her waist as she climbed in. She whispered her thanks. He said nothing, circling to the driver's side, fastening his seatbelt, and pressing the accelerator.
The winter night outside was cold, but the car was warm.
Elliot, unusually, turned on the music.
After a moment, he asked about her work in the entertainment industry. "Doesn't it pay well? Why take on something like this?"
Her chest tightened. His tone was mild, but the words landed like blows. In his mind, what they had was no different from prostitution.
She didn't argue.
"I need the money," she said softly. "When I was young, I had a dream. It takes a lot of money to make it real. Elliot, you can give me that."
His voice was flat. "So you sleep with me just for the money?"
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