Page 183 of Collide

Of course,heknows the type.

Hewasthe fucking type.

Stepping out on my mother multiple times during their marriage. Cheating, lying, wrecking everything in his path. And now he has the audacity to stand here and judge me? To sit across from me with his mistress-turned-wife and pretend to be the moral compass of my life?

My fists clench at my sides as fury bubbles up inside me, white-hot and uncontrollable. “Of course, you know the type,Mortimer. Youarethe fucking type.” My voice shakes, but it doesn’t waver.

“Elena, please, calm down,” Philippa whispers, gripping my arm as if she can physically hold me back.

But I’m past the point of being restrained.

“Who the fuck are you to dictate who I can and can’t date? You sure as hell didn’t rein yourself in when you were screwing half of Manhattan behind my mother’s back. And then—then you had the audacity to fucking marry your whore just to rub salt in the wound!”

The words rip out of me, raw and jagged, slicing through the room like a blade.

“Oh my God, Elena—Carole, I’m…” Philippa gasps, her eyes wide with horror.

Carole’s face falls, her hands trembling at her sides. She doesn’t say a word, just stands up and quietly leaves the boutique.

A moment of silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

I inhale sharply, my chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. “I appreciate your fatherly concern. It’s about eighteen years too fucking late, but I can handle my own relationships.”

Mortimer’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes flicker with something—rage, guilt, maybe both.

“Clearly, you can’t. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in the middle of yet another scandal,” he bites back. “And don’t youevertalk tomywife like that again.” His voice is firm and cold, slicing through me.

He doesn’t wait for a response. He gets up and walks out, leaving the tension crackling in his wake.

The breath I’d been holding finally releases, but instead of relief, all I feel is exhaustion. My knees buckle, and before I can stop myself, I collapse onto the floor in a broken heap.

Philippa is beside me in an instant, wrapping her arms around me as I shudder against her.

She doesn’t speak. She just holds me.

And for the first time in a long time, I let her.

After the heated exchange at the bridal store, Philippa and I return to my apartment, the weight of the day—one that started with such a high—now sits heavy on my shoulders. I peel off my heels, tossing them carelessly near the door before flopping onto the couch. Philippa follows, more composed, but I can tell she’s still processing everything. She sits across from me, curling one leg under the other, her expression unreadable.

For a few moments, neither of us speaks. The only sound is the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then, finally?—

“What the hell happened back there?” Philippa asks, her voice quieter than I expected.

I exhale, rubbing my temples. “I don’t know, Pip. He…set me off.”

She studies me for a beat before tilting her head. “You said something…about Dad stepping out on Mom. About Carole being his mistress. That wasn’t true, was it?”

I freeze.

The exhaustion in my body is drowned out by a cold realization.She doesn’t know.

I sit up straighter, gripping the throw pillow in my lap, avoiding her gaze. “Philippa…”

She shakes her head, her brows knitting together. “No. Tell me. What did you mean?”

I hesitate. I could lie. I could brush it off, pretend I was lashing out, let her keep the version of our family she believes in.