Jealous? 3

ELIJAH'S POV

I sat at the dinner table, play-tapping on the dark mahogany wood.

I couldn't shake the feeling that Imogen must be enduring a living hell at this very moment. A grin found its way to my mouth as I imagined what would burn through her mind when she stumbled into Deborah in the kitchen.

A part of me wondered why we were doing this. A part of me cared to know why I wanted to taunt her. It was strange how a part of myself painted me like a villain with those weird self-reflection questions.

I knew why. But I refused to admit it to my subconscious. The taunting was bearable. Enough to flush down the abyss of nothingness.

I could tell myself I was doing this for the right reasons. I was merely keeping a promise to my father.

When the man had insisted that it was Imogen or nothing, I conceded. But I had also told him Imogen would wish she had not chosen to be his pawn.

Despite that stark warning, my father had gone ahead with the wedding. Perhaps it was because he was so sure that I would not defy him.

That was where a part of that rage came from. I was angry my life was this way because of Imogen.

I remained there, tapping at the table, when Maggie suddenly waltzed in and began to arrange the plates and spoons carefully.

That meant whatever was being cooked in the kitchen was ready.

That forced a sense of unease settle over me.

It was unusual for there to be such calm in the house, especially with Imogen and Deborah under the same roof.

I half-expected to hear the sound of raised voices or the clatter of kitchenware as they clashed.

But there was nothing.

"Is the food ready?" I asked.

"Yes, Master Elijah," Maggie informed me.

"The mistress of the house told me to prepare the utensils."

I knew who she was referring to, but I had to ask.

"Imogen?"

I waited for confirmation from Maggie, who simply nodded before excusing herself from the room.

The revelation left me momentarily stunned. Despite the tensions that simmered from me bringing Deborah here, Imogen had chosen not to engage in confrontation.

It was a stark departure from her usual fiery demeanor, and I couldn't help but wonder what lay behind her unexpected acquiescence.

The door swung open again, and my attention was drawn to who came inside.

I watched Imogen and Deborah both walk with a dish in their hands. It looked like they had cooked different foods.

The contrasting expressions etched upon the faces of the two women were what gave me concern, however.

Imogen wore a triumphant grin on her face, and her eyes seemed to sparkle with an unmistakable sense of victory. It was as if she had just won the lottery.

In contrast, Deborah's features were twisted in a grimace of distaste and despair, as though she had just witnessed the apocalypse firsthand.

I observed silently as Imogen made her way to the far end of the table, positioning herself as far away from me as possible. With a self-satisfied air, she began to serve herself a generous portion of what appeared to be beef stew and dinner rolls.

Meanwhile, Deborah settled herself beside me, her demeanor decidedly less pleasant.

I watched her open her dish and proceed to serve us both a plate bearing a modest serving of lentil soup and potatoes.

The stark difference in their meals did not escape my notice.

"Lentils?" The words came out before I could shove them back in.

"Do you not like it?" Imogen asked. "I was going to cook this for three of us. But Deborah hinted that I couldn't cater to your palette. I agree."

I knew sarcasm when I heard it.

Deborah's eyes flickered with what looked like resentment as she met my gaze. "It's a simple meal, Elijah," she replied curtly, her tone laced with a hint of bitterness.

Imogen's lips curled into a smirk as she observed the exchange, clearly relishing the foul tension. "Oh, I'm sure Elijah can appreciate a change from his usual fare," she remarked.

My eyebrows perked, just wondering what she did.

Deborah slammed her spoon on the table and turned to face Imogen. "It is not a change from his usual fare. Elijah and I had it that time in Europe."

She then turned to me. "Remember?"

I clenched my jaw, feeling frustration rising.

This petty bickering was the last thing I needed after a long day. But this was also a hell of my creation.

"I'm fine with whatever is on the table," I interjected, attempting to diffuse the mounting tension.

But Deborah seemed unwilling to let the matter rest.

"Of course you are," she muttered under her breath, her gaze flickering to Imogen before returning to me with a challenging glare.

"Deborah, I don't understand why you are so angry. I have done nothing wrong."

Imogen leaned back in her chair with a satisfied grin, clearly enjoying the spectacle I suspected she had instigated. "Well, this is certainly entertaining," she commented, her voice dripping with amusement as she continued to eat.

I shot her a warning glance before turning back to face Deborah. "Whatever she told you, you know it isn't true. You know me."

"Do I?" she queried, tears pooling the corners of her eyes.

Oh my God. Here came the waterworks. Perhaps bringing her here was a mistake.

"Do I know you at all, Elijah?"

"I thought you did," I replied. "I was certain you did. What is making you like this?"

Deborah's expression softened slightly, her anger giving way to a profound sadness.

She wiped at her tears and asked me. "You love me, don't you, Elijah?"

"Of course," I reached for her hand.

Physical touch seemed to be her love language. But she pulled her hands away from my reach the second I stalked closer.

"Then I don't understand why you're allowing her to come between us," she murmured.

I turned to face Imogen again. She didn't look like she had a care in the world what was happening. By now, she was half done with her food.

"You know it is not like that," I protested, my frustration mounting. "I don't know what she told you. But you should take whatever she says with a grain of salt. I love you."

"Then why am I the mistress? Why is she your wife?"

"Because my father—"

Deborah shook her head, her tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "No. No more of that excuse. I am not some runt of the barrel. My family is wealthy. You don't have to lick at your father's feet just so you can live. We can leave here. We can leave Portland. Go back to Europe. We can get married. Just like we always wanted to. You two don't have to torture yourselves in this loveless marriage. You—We deserve to be happy."

A frown formed on my face as I struggled to find the right words to soothe Deborah's anguish.

"How will your father respect me when I have to depend on him to survive?"

Deborah's eyes flashed with frustration as she interrupted me. "Then I do not mind a simple life in the countryside."

I sighed heavily, knowing that there was no easy way to explain the tangled web of obligation that bound me to Imogen. But Deborah deserved honesty, even if it meant revealing the ugly truth.

"I want to do that," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "More than anything. But my father has made it clear that if I were to divorce Imogen, my brother would inherit everything. I can't risk that, Deborah. Not when so much is at stake."

Deborah's expression hardened as she processed my words, her tears drying up as a steely resolve settled over her features. "So it's about spite," she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. "You're willing to sacrifice our happiness for the sake of ensuring that your brother doesn't get the family fortune?"

"It's not just about money," I protested. "I would be giving up—"

"I don't think I can do this anymore, Elijah," she declared, her voice tinged with resignation.

"What?!"

"I can't keep fighting for us if you're not willing to do the same. I deserve better than this."

I reached out again. This time, I grabbed her hand and refused to let go.

"You are acting erratic, Deborah. Don't let her get between us."

"She isn't the one getting between us, Elijah. It is you. I was willing to be your mistress. I was willing to make another woman's life hell. But you can't make that sacrifice for me. You only think about yourself. Now that I think about it, I am here dressed as a slut just so you can make her fucking jealous. Why do you want her jealous if you don't care about her?"

"That is not it!" I retorted.

"Then what is it?" Deborah's words cut through me like a knife, each accusation stabbing at the core of my being.

I released her hand as if it had burned me, recoiling from the harsh truth.

"I never wanted this," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I would never intentionally hurt you."

Her gaze softened slightly, a flicker of sympathy passing through her eyes. "I know, Elijah," she replied, her tone gentler now. "But intentions mean nothing if they're not backed by actions. And right now, your actions are speaking louder than your words."

I felt a knot form in my stomach, a gnawing sense of guilt and regret threatening to consume me whole.

"I don't know what to do," I admitted, feeling utterly lost and helpless. "I don't want to lose you, Deborah. You mean everything to me. Tell me how I can fix this."

Deborah turned to Imogen before fixing her sights back on me. "Divorce her. Say hell to it all if your family doesn't want us together. Then so be it. We don't need them. All we need is each other." She reached for my hands, hoping I would take it. "What do you say?"

Imogen chuckled, eating the last bit of her food. "He is going to disappoint you." She told Deborah.

Deborah's words hung in the air, heavy with expectation and desperation. I could see the longing in her eyes, the yearning for a resolution to our particular situation. I stared at her hand, which was extended towards me, a lifeline offering the possibility of escape from the suffocating web of family obligations and societal expectations.

But when I looked back to meet her gaze, uncertainty clouded my mind.

Divorcing Imogen meant more than just severing ties with a wife; it meant upending the delicate balance of power within my family, risking the wrath of my father and the loss of my inheritance.

Imogen's mocking laughter echoed in the room. It was like she knew how this was going to turn out.

I felt torn between the two women, torn between duty and desire, between loyalty to my family and love for Deborah. It was a choice that would define the rest of my life, a choice that I was not prepared to make in the heat of the moment.

"I need time," I finally murmured, my voice barely audible over the din of my conflicting emotions. "I need time to think, to figure out what's best for us."

Deborah's hand fell back to her side, disappointment flickering across her features. "Of course," she replied, her tone resigned. "Take all the time you need. But do it without me in it. I'm going back to Europe."