The Seductive Pretty Boy of the Matriarchal World-Chapter 53: Turning On the Tears
Chapter 53: Turning On the Tears
Elias Kane lay sprawled across the king-sized bed in the presidential suite without a shred of dignity, one hand lazily rubbing at the corners of his eyes to ease the dry ache and fatigue that came from binge-watching an entire filmography on double speed. He had spent nearly ten straight hours absorbing every movie and the handful of television projects Seraphina Hale had ever starred in, the screen’s glow casting shifting shadows across the luxurious room while the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows burned like distant stars against the night sky.
He turned his head toward the glass, watching the glittering Manhattan skyline pulse with life. Evening had fully settled in, the hour late enough that the streets below hummed with the low thrum of elite nightlife. Giselle Frost still hadn’t shown up. Not a single message, not a call—nothing. Liora Voss remained radio silent too, probably still deep in her little avoidance game, while Serena Blackwood... well, she wasn’t exactly ghosting him, but he had wrung her out pretty thoroughly the other night. She was likely somewhere recovering, letting her body catch up after he had pushed her limits in that calculated, relentless way of his.
He understood the silence. He just didn’t like it.
Here he was—the undisputed protagonist of his own chaotic existence—reduced to being ignored by every single one of the high-maintenance women tangled up in his life. Elias lifted a hand and slammed it down hard into the thick duvet, the fabric muffling the impact as frustration flickered across his features. "What a joke," he muttered, voice low and edged with genuine annoyance. "The world’s gone to hell. Not a single one of them is willing to swoop in and steal me away while I’m sitting here all lonely and neglected?"
The system’s flat voice cut in. [That’s... not exactly how that idiom is supposed to be used.]
Elias narrowed his eyes, the green irises catching the soft lamplight. "Hmm?"
The system wisely stayed silent.
Then, without warning, the phone he had left at the foot of the bed vibrated once against the mattress. Elias didn’t even bother sitting up. He simply extended one bare foot, toes flexing with practiced dexterity to pinch the device between them. With a smooth flick of his leg, the phone arced neatly through the air and landed square in his waiting palm. He unlocked the screen.
Giselle Frost had finally replied.
Elias sat up instantly, the motion fluid and alert.
Just two words—clean, direct, and so perfectly in character for her it made the corner of his mouth twitch.
Giselle Frost: Come Downstairs.
A quiet laugh escaped him. "Told you she’s pretty damn cute."
She had every reason to stay away after what he pulled, yet here she was anyway. A single custom jacket, no matter how obscenely expensive, meant nothing to someone like Giselle Frost. She could have written it off as lost and moved on without a second thought. The fact that she had come at all meant she couldn’t quite let him go—or, more accurately, she couldn’t let go of the idea of Lucien Hart that he represented.
The system pinged with visible confusion. [?]
[Host, why are you crying?]
Elias was already sliding a fresh pair of white socks over his feet, the fabric soft against his skin, while a thin trail of tears slipped down his cheeks. He smiled through them, the expression calm and almost fond. "Just some prep work."
He dressed quickly, the movements efficient and unhurried, then picked up the plastic bag containing Giselle’s freshly laundered jacket. Before stepping out he paused at the bathroom mirror, checking his reflection. His eyes were convincingly red-rimmed, the effect subtle enough to look raw without the ugly swelling that came from actual prolonged sobbing. Perfect. He gave himself a small nod of approval and headed for the elevator.
Down in the hotel lobby, the cool night air drifting in from the revolving doors carried the faint metallic scent of recent rain mixed with expensive colognes from passing guests. Elias scanned the space, bag in hand, but Giselle was nowhere in sight. Instead, a girl roughly the same age and height as Giselle stood waiting—dressed in the exact same caliber of bespoke designer outfit, her presence magnetic enough to draw every eye in the room even with the faint swelling still visible on one cheek. The bruise-like puffiness disrupted her otherwise flawless aura, but only slightly; she was still the kind of woman who turned heads everywhere she went.
Elias took it all in at a glance and mentally pieced together the most likely story behind that swollen cheek, but he kept his face blank, the picture of oblivious innocence. Head slightly lowered, he walked past Sloane Sinclair without a second look, then paused a few steps beyond her and glanced around as if searching for Giselle, shoulders slumping with quiet disappointment.
While Elias hunted for any sign of the silver-haired ice queen, Sloane Sinclair studied him in return. In her eyes, the way he had shuffled past her without even registering her presence was almost comically pathetic. Any normal person would have noticed her outfit, the obvious connection to Giselle’s text, and at least given her a curious once-over. But not him. His entire demeanor screamed weakness—so timid he couldn’t even muster the courage to meet a stranger’s gaze.
A faint, disdainful curve touched Sloane’s lips. She genuinely couldn’t fathom what Giselle saw in a guy like this.
Elias’s looks were average at best, nothing striking. His build was hidden under loose layers that revealed little, and whatever charisma or presence he might have possessed seemed completely absent. The only remotely positive feature she could spot was his unusually smooth, pale skin—flawless like a peeled egg, almost unnaturally soft under the lobby lights. That was it. Nothing else stood out.
And really, were good-looking guys with nice skin in short supply these days? Every college guy on campus seemed obsessed with skincare routines, and plenty of them were far more conventionally attractive than Elias Kane. So what exactly had drawn Giselle in? A drunken mistake? Sloane’s disbelief only grew as she watched the boy stand there looking utterly dejected, the picture of quiet heartbreak. A tiny scoff escaped her nose before she finally spoke.
"Hey."
Elias blinked, turning toward her with a dazed, almost lost expression in his red-rimmed eyes.
God, he was dull. Boring to the point of absurdity.
Whatever lingering curiosity Sloane had felt toward him evaporated completely with that single reaction. She extended her right hand toward him, tone flat. "The jacket."
She still couldn’t understand why Giselle had insisted on coming here in the first place. It was just a coat—replaceable, forgettable. Yet Giselle had been dead set on retrieving it herself, and to make up for the earlier punch, Sloane had been dragged along as the reluctant errand girl.
Elias looked at her, understanding dawning behind those teary eyes. He hesitated, voice soft and stumbling. "You... you’re a friend of Giselle’s?"
The tone was pleasant enough—smooth and unexpectedly appealing, especially paired with the vulnerable red eyes that would have triggered protective instincts in plenty of women.
Sloane wasn’t one of them. She lifted her gaze coolly. "Yeah. She asked me to pick up the stuff she left with you. So can I have the jacket now?"
A subtle flicker passed through Elias’s expression. Sloane’s words and body language dripped with open contempt, but there was no real impatience behind it. Giselle was probably watching from somewhere nearby, hidden just out of sight.
Since they had both come all this way, he might as well force her hand.
He caught his lower lip gently between his teeth, the picture of someone uncomfortable around strangers, voice small and hesitant. "Where... where is she right now? Could I see her? I really need to talk to her..."
Sloane had no idea exactly where Giselle stood on this guy, but the fact that she had refused to come down herself suggested it was safe to be a little harsher. "The jacket!"
The next instant her expression froze.
Tears slipped down Elias Kane’s cheeks in complete silence the moment her tone sharpened. No sound, no dramatic sobs—just quiet streams tracing over his skin while he bit down harder on his lip, his whole frame trembling as if he were fighting back some deep, unbearable pain.
Sloane stood there, completely stunned.
What the hell was this?
Some kind of drama-school performance?
Before she could process it, a new figure appeared in her peripheral vision. A silver-haired girl stepped forward, seized Elias’s wrist in a firm grip, and yanked him straight back through the hotel doors without a word.
One glance at Giselle Frost’s face told Sloane everything she needed to know. She had never seen the other girl look quite this darkly furious.
