A Plea to Return

Elena froze as Declan’s cold, unforgiving tone pierced her chest like a serrated knife. Standing in the center of his expansive office, she meticulously suppressed her bitter disappointment, forcing her face into a mask of perfect indifference. She listened to him defend Camilla and dismiss her own feelings.

"El, stop making trouble," he warned, his deep voice softening only slightly, like a parent scolding an unreasonable child. "Don't make me regret choosing you to be my wife."

The sheer audacity of his words echoed in her mind. *Regret?* Elena thought, her internal voice trembling with a decade of suppressed grief. *I regret giving up my elite status in the powerful Sinclair family just to become Mrs. Prescott.*

She was the heiress of the Sinclair Group, a dynasty with real status and power. She could have stayed in that world, doted on, respected. Instead, she had thrown it all away for him.

Maintaining her elegant composure, she reached into her bag and pulled out a pristine, white envelope.

"Mr. Prescott, then please go ahead and approve this. I'll officially resign starting tomorrow."

She placed the envelope on his desk.

Declan’s eyes snapped to the white paper. As she turned to leave, his hand shot out. He grabbed her slender arm, his handsome face darkening with a sudden, restrained anger.

"Elena?" his voice dropped, heavy with disbelief. He held her tight, his fingers digging into her skin. "You are doing this to spite me? I thought you came here today to make peace, but now you are taking this even further?"

"No, Mr. Prescott. You said Prescott Group doesn't need me, and I agree," Elena replied, keeping her voice level, though her thick lashes trembled. "It has been ten years. The company is stable now. Since everyone prefers Camilla, I will step down."

Declan let out a cold laugh, his sharp gaze searching her face. "Do not use the last ten years to guilt-trip me. I know Prescott Group would not be where it is today without your hard work. You were an excellent employee. But ever since you had Cole, you have not been involved in any business matters. I have been nothing but considerate. All you have to do is take care of our son, and you will always have the security of being the lady of Prescott Group."

He pulled her closer, his breath hot against her temple. "But you cannot even handle something this simple. Now you claim you are stepping aside? All you are doing is putting Camilla in a difficult position. Elena, I know you too well. You are calculating, but do not be cruel. Since last night, have you even apologized to Cami?"

A dry, bitter laugh escaped Elena's lips. Apologize? He wanted her to apologize to the manipulative woman who was trying to tear her family apart? Camilla had spent months undermining her, whispering in Cole's ear, and taking credit for her work, and now Declan wanted her to beg for forgiveness.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with a morbid, detached curiosity. "Yes, I am cruel. Mr. Prescott, have you never considered giving up?"

"Giving up?" Declan’s grip tightened around her arm, his knuckles turning white.

In his rigid, domineering mind, the concept of divorce did not exist. Elena was his wife. She belonged to him, a permanent fixture of his household, someone he could put away on a shelf and expect to remain there. He would never allow her to leave.

"This is your last chance, Elena," he threatened, his voice laced with venom. "If you mess up again, I will not hesitate to find Cole a new mom. Do you know how many times he has complained to me about you? He says he has no joy or freedom living under your rules. Why are you such a failure as both a wife and a mother?"

The devastating word *failure* echoed in her mind. It felt like a physical blow, mocking her years of devotion.

She shut her eyes, a long, quiet sigh escaping her lips. She thought of the countless winter nights she had spent waiting up for him, keeping the soup warm while he was out with clients. She thought of his expensive designer suits, which she had meticulously washed by hand in freezing water because he hated the chemical smell of dry cleaning, leaving her fingers raw and bleeding. She thought of Cole, whom she had tutored late into the night, carefully molding him to fit the flawless image of a Prescott heir, only for him to turn his back on her. All of it had been a failure.

With a quiet, deeply heartbreaking sincerity that stripped away all her previous defenses, she looked at Declan.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Prescott," she said softly.

She believed him. She had failed to make him love her, and she had failed to earn her son’s respect. It was time for the failure to leave the stage.

Slowly, she slipped her free hand into her coat pocket. Her fingers brushed the cold screen of her phone. She tapped the glass, triggering the customized fifteen-day countdown she had prepared.

In exactly fifteen days, her resignation would be complete, her affairs in Oakhaven settled, and she would disappear from their lives.

Elena pulled her arm from his grasp. She turned on her heel and walked toward the heavy office doors. She did not look back.

Declan stood frozen, staring at her retreating back. As the door began to swing shut, he instinctively reached out his hand, grasping at the empty air. A sudden, sharp panic seized his chest. It was a rapidly growing, inexplicable dread, a feeling that something vital and foundational to his very existence was slipping out of his iron grasp. He wanted to call her name, but his pride held him back.

Once outside the suffocating corporate building, the cold winter wind hit Elena’s face. Snow was beginning to fall, dusting the busy streets of Oakhaven with a thin layer of white. The city was bustling, filled with strangers hurrying to their warm homes.

Elena stood on the street corner, her body trembling slightly from the cold and the residual adrenaline. She pulled her phone from her pocket and looked at the screen. The countdown was ticking. Fifteen days.

She unlocked the phone and scrolled through her contacts until she found a name she hadn't dialed in six years: Valerie Yates.

Valerie was her childhood best friend, a brilliant and fierce fashion designer. But because Valerie lived a wild, independent life, Declan had deemed her a bad influence on their son. He had forced Elena to cut ties with her, and Elena, desperate to be the perfect, obedient wife, had complied. She had abandoned the one person who truly cared for her.

With trembling fingers, Elena pressed the call button.

The phone rang, the sound loud against the rush of traffic. Then, the line connected.

"So you finally remembered I exist?" Valerie’s voice snapped through the static. "Elena, I thought you were lost forever in your lovesick haze. Why are you calling me now? Finally realizing what a fool you've been?"

Hearing that familiar, angry, yet protective voice, Elena's wall of composure shattered.

She had not shed a single tear when Declan accused her of being calculating. She had not cried when he called her a failure, or when her own biological son joyfully called another woman "Mom." But now, standing on a cold street corner surrounded by strangers, the tears fell freely. She began to sob, her shoulders shaking.

"Yes, I regret it," Elena cried, her voice cracking under the weight of ten years of misery. "Val, if I come back now, is it too late?"

There was a sudden, heavy silence on the other end of the line. The sharp anger in Valerie’s voice instantly melted away. When she spoke again, her voice was thick with choked, sympathetic tears.

"I'm just glad you've finally come to your senses," Valerie sobbed. "You idiot, do you have any idea how exhausting it has been running the studio for you all these years? The entire art world has been waiting for your return."

Valerie let out a shaky breath. "Elena, being a secretary for some arrogant CEO only buried your genius. You were born to be an artist. You are the last true gem of the Impressionist world. We have all been waiting for you."

"I'm sorry, Val. I'm so sorry," Elena whispered, wiping the hot tears from her cheeks.

She crouched down on the concrete sidewalk, ignoring the curious glances of passersby. The cold of the ground seeped through her coat, but she barely felt it.

Elena had hidden her brilliant, prestigious past from everyone in Oakhaven, including Declan. Ten years ago, she had been a prodigy at the finest art academy in Vespera. Her graduation masterpiece had shocked the prestigious Biennale, earning rave reviews from the harshest critics. Her subsequent paintings had sold for millions of dollars at elite auctions, coveted by collectors worldwide.

She had been a rising star, destined for greatness. Yet, she had abandoned her true calling, locked away her brushes, and started from scratch as a lowly secretary, all for the sake of a naive, unrequited love. She had spent a decade managing schedules, organizing files, and trying to win the heart of a man who saw her as nothing more than a convenient housekeeper.

But now, the illusion was shattered.

As the snow fell around her, Elena closed her eyes and felt a sudden, powerful warmth bloom in her chest. The tears stopped. Her breathing evened out. She looked at her hands—hands that were meant to hold brushes, not wash suits.

She stood up, brushing the snow from her coat. The fifteen-day countdown was ticking, but for the first time in ten years, she felt a sense of freedom. She was going back to the top, and this time, no one would stand in her way.