Your Regrets Won't Bring Me Back - Chapter 22: Chapter 22

"Annie, come eat something," Victor called.
Annabelle froze, secretly balling her fists—was that all the punishment Elena would get?
She picked at a few pastries, distracted, then carried an evening gown toward the fitting rooms.
Victor's gaze slid to Elena, who stood apart.
Head bowed, she remained in the farthest corner.
Irritation flared in him. "Elena Bennett, pick out a gown," he ordered.
"I'm fine in my everyday clothes," she replied.
"Elena Bennett, I suggest you don't push your luck," Victor said, voice tight.
Elena offered no further response and did not move.
Victor Whitmore lit a cigarette, drew so deeply that the tip glowed white-hot, then lifted his eyes to the boutique clerk and said, "Find her an evening gown that fits."
The clerk nodded quickly and gestured toward a row of dresses. "Certainly, Miss Bennett. Is there a particular style you prefer?"
Victor cut her off, voice frosty. "Don't overthink it. Grab anything that fits—she doesn't deserve the privilege of choosing."
The clerk forced an embarrassed smile and gave Elena Bennett a discreet once-over.
Elena was so painfully thin that almost nothing in the boutique would sit right on her. After searching, the clerk finally produced the only option—a backless dress that might barely cover her.
Victor's gaze sharpened on Elena. "Why are you still standing there? Change—now."
Cradling the gown, Elena pressed her lips together and stepped into the fitting room without a word, but the memory of the scars on her body rooted her to the spot.
Annabelle Bennett's playful voice drifted in from outside.
"Victor! Do I look pretty?"
"Mm. You look beautiful."
"But my neck feels so bare."
The clerk gushed, "Miss Bennett, your figure is stunning! This dress shows every perfect curve. If you add this necklace, the effect will be flawless."
"Victor, would you fasten it for me?"
Through a sliver in the door, Elena watched Victor clasp the necklace around Annabelle's throat; Annabelle's smile bloomed as she admired her reflection.
Elena's eyes narrowed a fraction.
'People only grow weak when they care about something,' she thought. 'Annabelle is no exception.'
Footsteps halted outside, and Elena suddenly called out, "Victor, could you help me with my zipper?"
Victor jerked as if struck.
For an instant he wondered if he'd misheard, yet the voice was unmistakably Elena's.
It was the first time she had spoken his name since her return.
After a brief hesitation, he reached out and pushed open the fitting-room door.
Elena stood with her back to him, still wrapped in the torn clothes she had arrived in.
Victor's brows knit. "What's wrong? Don't you like the dress?"
Still facing away, she murmured, "President Whitmore chose it. How could I possibly dislike it?"
Again with that stiff, formal "President."
Victor ground his molars, loathing the distance in her tone.
"Then stop wasting time and put it on."
Elena met his eyes in the mirror. "You really want me to change?"
His patience snapped. "What—do you need me to dress you myself?"
Elena lowered her head, saying nothing, but every nerve strained to catch the sounds outside.
Annabelle was looking for him.
Without warning, Victor lunged forward and yanked at Elena's collar.
Startled, she clutched the neckline and staggered back.
"Please—President Whitmore—don't..."
Annabelle heard the honorific loud and clear outside the door.
Her eyes darkened; she rushed to the fitting room.
Hearing the latch turn, Elena seized Victor's wrist and let her weight fall backward; the two of them crashed to the floor together.
Annabelle shoved the door open and found them tangled in a startlingly intimate embrace.