Bound by lies, Trapped by Desire - Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Elena’s POV:
“Elena.”
Her voice cut through the room like a blade. I flinched and stared harder at the TV remote in my hand, pretending to fumble with the buttons, even though the Turkish drama was already playing.
Yeah. It had been a couple of hours.
Three in the afternoon, and I still hadn’t told her.
Good thing she couldn’t move much, because I was fairly certain she was about five seconds away from summoning the strength to strangle me with her IV line. I could feel the fury radiating from her bed like a furnace. My sweet, fragile mother who was recovering from open heart surgery looked ready to commit murder.
I cleared my throat, flicking through episodes we’d already seen a hundred times. “Episode fourteen?” I offered weakly.
She narrowed her eyes. “Elena.”
This was bad.
She’d taken a two-hour nap earlier. I’d used the time to breathe, to plan, to gather the courage to tell her everything.
I had come up with exactly zero strategies.
There was only one viable option now, panic and blurt the truth, then pray she didn’t keel over and die a second time out of sheer frustration.
A knock on the door interrupted the tension like a deus ex machina. I leapt to my feet, practically jogging toward it with a breath of relief.
"Must be the nurse," I muttered.
I opened the door, expecting a meal tray.
And froze.
Oh, for the love of—
My heart dropped to my toes.
Standing there, in all his six-foot-plus glory, was Nikolai Vetrov. Tailored suit, bouquet of white lilies in hand, eyes calm and impassive as ever.
No. No. Not yet.
I wasn’t ready. This was way too soon.
He looked past me into the room with a polite nod. "Good afternoon."
I felt my jaw tighten.
He was going to blow my cover.
I hissed under my breath, “What the hell are you doing here?”
He raised an eyebrow. "You didn’t tell her yet?"
“She just woke up!” I whispered furiously.
“Elena?" My mother’s voice floated from the bed. "Is it Dmitri?"
I physically winced.
Nikolai's brows shot up. He gave me a look that clearly said you have got to be kidding me.
Before I could slam the door in his face, he strode in with quiet confidence, bouquet still in hand.
"Hello, Mrs. Kovalyova," he said smoothly.
My mother blinked at him in confusion.
"Oh… thank you," she said, accepting the flowers. "You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a little groggy. You are…?"
"Nikolai Vetrov," he said with a practiced smile.
She stilled. Then let out a short, awkward laugh.
"Right. I know that name. The renowned billionaire. But… you’re here?” Her gaze flicked between us, confusion blooming.
Oh no.
I saw the exact moment she put the pieces together. Her eyes dropped to my dress—the one Nikolai had bought last night. She studied the cut of the fabric. Her brows lifted. Damn it, obviously she was too smart not to understand.
Then she turned back to him, and her voice was sharper now.
"You’re the one who paid the bills?"
I opened my mouth to intervene, but she was already glaring.
Nikolai remained calm. "It wasn’t much trouble. Please don’t worry yourself."
Her attention snapped to me again. "I’m sorry, Nikolai, this is the first time we’re meeting—I had expected Dmitri."
I could practically see the gears turning in her head. She knew something was off. She always did. She was my mother, after all.
Nikolai flicked his gaze to me, and I could tell he was silently asking, Want me to take over?
No.
I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. I wasn’t a coward. My mother didn’t raise one.
"I broke off the engagement with Dmitri," I said quietly.
Her expression froze.
I continued, “He cheated on me. I walked in on him.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
My mother closed her eyes. Pain twisted her features. I hated that I had to hurt her this way. She’d loved Dmitri. Not as a son, but she respected him. Trusted him to take care of me.
And now I had to shatter that illusion.
"I’m sorry," I whispered.
Mom had always hated cheaters.
It wasn’t just a preference—it was a ary carved deep into her bones. A line drawn by experience, by betrayal. One that made her guard her heart so fiercely, it took years before she ever let someone close enough to call a partner.
She sighed then, rubbing her temples slowly, the weight of everything pressing down on her face. “I see,” she murmured.
That was it.
No angry outburst. No dramatic gasp. Just... quiet. Tired.
The kind of tired that settled in your bones when life had already proven, more than once, that people don’t always choose to stay loyal.
And God, I hated how heavy she looked. Like the strength I always relied on in her had been chipped away bit by bit—and this was just another blow.
Her first real relationship—her first long-term boyfriend—had shattered her trust. He’d lied, cheated, gaslit her until she questioned her own instincts. It left scars she never tried to hide, only learned to live with. After that, she never looked at love the same way again.
It took years before someone came along who didn’t run from her fears. Who didn’t call her “too much” for needing reassurance. That someone was George Anderson.
He didn’t mock her paranoia. He didn’t get defensive. Instead, I had watched as he handed her his phone and said, “Track me if you need to. I don’t want you guessing—I want you to feel safe.”
And that was it.
That was the moment Mom let him in.
Because sometimes love doesn’t look like flowers and grand gestures.
Sometimes it looks like transparency.
Like patience.
Like trust rebuilt from the ground up.
She opened her eyes slowly. Her voice was quiet. "Did you at least punch him? Break his nose?"
I blinked. “What?”
"That little rat cheated on my daughter after four years? You should’ve at least broken a bone."