Chapter 36: Only Mine

The city below burned with light—skyscrapers lit like constellations, traffic crawling like veins of molten gold. But from where Jason Asher sat, high above it all in his penthouse, it felt like watching a party he hadn’t been invited to. His apartment—a sprawling monument to wealth—was all sharp lines and cold beauty: marble floors polished to perfection, black leather couches barely touched, and a bar lined with rare liquors older than his trust fund. The kind of place people posted on social media with captions like "Living the dream." But tonight? It felt more like a very expensive prison cell. Jason slumped into the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other clenched around his phone like it might suddenly start ringing if he squeezed hard enough. The screen glowed with a cruel kind of stillness—Eliana’s name lit up in the recent calls list, again and again, unanswered. His jaw tightened. Each missed call felt like her voice saying "Don’t bother." And maybe she was right. He hovered his thumb over her contact, just for a second. He could call again. Say something real this time. But then what? She’d let it ring, or worse—send it straight to voicemail like before. So instead, he dropped the phone onto the glass coffee table. It bounced off a stack of unopened mail—bills he’d ignored, party invites he didn’t care about—and came to a stop beside a half-drained glass of bourbon. The amber liquid shimmered in the city’s glow, reflecting back the same color as his eyes. Hazel, like hers used to light up when she smiled at him. Back when she thought he was worth something. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, dragging both hands through his tousled blond hair. It was getting longer than usual, a little unkempt—Eliana used to ruffle it with a laugh and call him a "spoiled surfer boy." He used to like that. Now, the silence of the room pressed in around him, too loud, too sharp. Truth was, he didn’t even know where she lived anymore. When she left—packed out of his house with that sickly father of hers and a sad little truck filled with everything they owned—he hadn’t asked where she was going. Hadn’t cared. Not then. To him, she was just another complication. A mess he didn’t need. Her dad had been in and out of hospitals, she was always exhausted, and she kept asking for things he didn’t know how to give—time, help, honesty. Vulnerability. Back then, he had his hands full with parties, deals, headlines and Sarai. Who had room for a girl dragging around broken pieces of a life he didn’t want to fix? But now? Now, it clawed at him. That not-knowing. It festered like a splinter he couldn’t reach, couldn’t ignore. Where was she sleeping? Was her dad okay? Did she even think of him anymore—or had she finally figured out he wasn’t the hero she’d once believed he could be? Jason let his head fall back against the couch, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The city pulsed below like a heartbeat, steady and uncaring. He had everything people chased after—money, power, a last name that got doors opened—but none of it meant a damn thing without her. And maybe the worst part? He knew it was his fault. She hadn’t slipped through his fingers. He’d let her go. No—pushed her. "God, I’m an idiot," he muttered, his voice low and bitter, swallowed by the hum of the city below. He stood, pacing the length of the penthouse, his sneakers silent on the polished hardwood. His mind churned with regret. Every step echoed with what-ifs. The times she tried to talk to him—really talk—and he brushed her off, too wrapped up in his own mess to notice she was quietly falling apart. She’d asked for time. For help. For space to just be heard. And he hadn’t listened. Hadn’t even tried. Now she was gone. Not in the dramatic sense—no goodbye note, no slammed door—but vanished, like smoke curling out of reach. One minute she was there, and the next... nothing. A ghost in the shape of a girl he should’ve fought harder to hold onto. He stopped at the massive window, staring at the man staring back. Clean-cut, ridiculously good-looking, dressed like he belonged on a magazine cover. But his reflection was all surface—money, style, charm—and none of it mattered. Not when his chest felt like a hollow drumbeat and his head was full of static. A private investigator. The idea sparked like a live wire. Drastic? Sure. Desperate? Absolutely. But he was past caring how it looked. What the hell else could he do? Sarai definitely wouldn’t help. She’d laugh—God, she’d laugh so hard. Her eyes always saw too much, and her tongue knew exactly where to cut deepest. She never liked Eliana. Never pretended to. The hate had always sat in her voice like poison. Sarai would rather swallow glass than lift a finger to find her. Across town, in their highearn hostel, Sarai Monroe was unraveling in her own way. Her private living room was a curated masterpiece—white fur throws, gold-accented furniture, and a chandelier that dripped crystals like frozen tears. But the elegance was a facade, barely containing the storm brewing inside her. She sat cross-legged on a plush rug, her phone balanced on her knee, her glossy black hair pulled into a high bun so tight it pulled at her scalp. She scrolled through Instagram with a manic intensity, her green eyes narrowed, searching for any trace of Eliana. Jason had been ignoring her for days, his attention glued to his phone, chasing a woman who didn’t even deserve him. It was infuriating. Sarai had won—she’d driven Eliana out of their lives, out of Jason’s bed, out of everything. And yet, Eliana’s shadow still lingered, a ghost that refused to be exorcised. "Stupid girl," Sarai hissed, her voice a low venom as she scrolled. "You don’t get to ruin everything after I already got rid of you." Her thumb froze as a video popped up on her feed, the thumbnail showing a familiar figure in a wheelchair, flanked by a woman with wild curls and a sling on her arm. The caption screamed in bold: BLIND BILLIONAIRE RAFAEL VEXLEY SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY WOMAN—KENNETH HOLLOWAY’S ADOPTED GRANDDAUGHTER? Sarai’s lips curled into a cruel smile as she tapped play. The video was grainy, clearly shot by some nosy bystander in a hospital corridor. Rafael Vexley’s wheelchair glided through the frame, his chiseled face a mask of cold indifference. Beside him walked Eliana, her navy sweater frayed at the cuffs, her jeans clinging to her slender frame. She looked small, fragile, but there was a quiet defiance in the way she held her head, her curls bouncing with every step. The camera lingered on them, catching the way Rafael’s chair stayed close to her, protective, like a knight guarding a queen. Whispers from the crowd filtered through the audio—"Is that really him?" "Who’s that woman? Why are they together?"—and Sarai’s laugh cut through the sound like a blade. "Oh, Eliana," she sneered, leaning back against the couch, her manicured nails tapping the phone screen. "You’re pathetic. Leeching off the blind, crippled billionaire now? You and your sob story always find a way to latch onto someone with a wallet." She shook her head, her bun glinting under the chandelier’s light. "You and Rafael Vexley deserve each other—two broken things pretending they’re worth something." Her laughter died as a wicked idea sparked in her mind, her eyes glinting with malice. She opened her messages, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she attached the video and sent it to Jason. The message was a carefully crafted dagger: "Look at your precious Eliana, Jason. She doesn’t deserve you. She’ll leech onto anyone with money—first her "grandfather" Kenneth Holloway, then you, and now this blind, crippled tyrant. Forget her. She’s not worth your time." She hit send, a triumphant smirk curling her lips as she imagined Jason’s reaction. Let him see Eliana for the gold-digger Sarai had always known she was. Let him hate her. Let him come back to Sarai, where he belonged. Back in his penthouse, Jason’s phone buzzed, the sound jarring in the quiet. He snatched it up, his heart lurching at the notification from Sarai. He opened the video, his jaw tightening as he watched Rafael Vexley—Rafael freaking Vexley—glide alongside Eliana like he owned her. The message beneath it burned into his brain, each word a fresh wound. She doesn’t deserve you... leech... blind, crippled tyrant... Jason’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles whitened, his breath coming in sharp, angry bursts. He stood, pacing again, his reflection a blur in the glass. "No one takes what’s mine," he growled to the empty room, his voice shaking with a mix of rage and desperation. "Not some blind, crippled no matter how much he has. No one!" He stopped, staring at the video frozen on his screen—Eliana’s face, tired but defiant, next to Rafael’s cold, commanding presence. His chest ached with a possessiveness he hadn’t felt in months. Eliana was his—his to love, his to hurt, his to keep. And he’d be damned if he let Rafael Vexley, of all people, take her away. "I’m coming for you, Eliana," he swore, his voice low and dangerous, the words swallowed by the empty penthouse. "And I’m not letting him have you. Never!"