the CEO's Unspoken Love

chapter 1

Eleanor POV

I've always known our marriage had an expiration date.

Three years ago, when Derek knelt before me at his grandmother Margaret's hospital bedside and proposed to me, we both knew clearly this was merely a three-year performance.

I accepted because I had loved him for too long, willing to take whatever scraps of time he offered. But during these three years, he's been in London almost constantly, making our marriage nothing but an empty title.

Now, with our three-year contract nearing its end, I've begun steeling myself for the inevitable.

Derek must be relieved that he can finally end this charade. Yet deep down, a foolish part of me still nurtures an impossible hope, like tending to a winter bloom that has no business surviving the frost.

The man I love has only ever seen me as that thirteen-year-old orphan who invaded his perfect world—a charity case, never a wife, certainly never a lover.

My fingers still stung slightly from rose thorns as I examined the wedding arrangement I'd just completed for a wedding at Trinity Church.

The cascade of white roses and delicate baby's breath filled the shop with their intoxicating fragrance, each petal a silent witness to promises I knew were often as fragile as they were.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the bay windows of Four Seasons Florals, casting golden patterns across the polished hardwood floors that had once represented my single triumph outside the Wells family shadow.

Just as I stepped back to assess my work, my phone rang.

"Eleanor Wells," I answered, injecting professionalism into my voice despite the exhaustion seeping into my bones.

"So you're alive after all!" Olivia's voice boomed through the speaker, vibrant and unapologetic as always. "I've texted you three times! Let me guess—you're busy playing the dutiful wife because your husband is back in town?"

My heart didn't just skip a beat. "What are you talking about?"

"Seriously? Derek. He landed at Logan this morning. You didn't know?" The surprise in Olivia's voice quickly crystallized into righteous fury.

I gripped the counter edge until my knuckles turned white, the smooth marble cool against my palm—a stark contrast to the heat rising within me.

"He never does," I said quietly, my pulse thundering beneath the calm surface.

"This is exactly why you need to be prepared when he hands you those divorce papers," Olivia continued, her words sharp as the shears I'd used on the roses.

"The man spends half a year with you after the wedding, then jets off to London for two and a half years, coming back once or twice a year like he's granting an audience to a commoner. Meanwhile, the Wall Street Journal can't stop composing sonnets about the financial prodigy Derek Wells, who's revolutionizing investment strategies at twenty-eight."

The next second, my phone pinged with an incoming message from Olivia: a candid photo of Derek at Logan Airport. Even in the grainy image, his sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and that permanently furrowed brow were unmistakable.

"Setting aside the fact that there's basically no emotional foundation to your marriage," Olivia added, "your husband has a face that's criminally handsome. It should be illegal to look that good while being such an eloquent phantom in your life."

I stared at his profile, feeling the familiar ache bloom in my chest, unfurling like one of my hothouse peonies—beautiful and doomed to wilt. "I should go," I managed, suddenly aware of how the air around me had thinned.

After hanging up, I gazed at the wedding arrangement in my shop window, momentarily transported back to my own wedding three years ago at the historic Old South Church.

The memory crystallized with the bitter clarity of winter air—Derek's glacial eyes as he slipped the ring onto my finger, the polite smile that never disturbed the frost, Catherine Wells watching with the calculated disapproval, and Margaret Wells beaming from her wheelchair, the only one genuinely celebrating the elaborate theatrical production staged for her benefit.

I quickly closed the shop, ignoring the light-headedness that spiraled through me from having skipped lunch. Outside, Newbury Street pulsed with the evening crowd—students with carefree laughter, tourists mapping generations of wealth through architecture, locals parading dogs groomed more meticulously than some children. None of them could see the invisible countdown clock hanging over my head.

During the cab ride to Beacon Hill, I mentally inventoried our kitchen, planning a dinner Derek might appreciate. The townhouse's brick facade emerged between the historic homes, its windows reflecting the setting sun like indifferent eyes. Last week, I'd dismissed the housekeeper he'd hired—what was the point when I lived alone most of the year?

Inside, the house was silent and pristine as I examined the refrigerator's contents and decided on the salmon with dill sauce Derek had once mentioned liking at L'Espalier before it closed. I spent two hours preparing the meal, arranging the plate as meticulously as one of my floral designs, pairing it with the Chablis his brother Alexander had gifted us last Christmas.

One hour passed. Then two. Derek didn't appear.

My calls went straight to voicemail. My texts remained unread. "Just like always," I whispered to myself, the words dissolving in the empty dining room like sugar in rain.

While absently scrolling through social media, a post caught my eye. Thomas Stone, one of Derek's friends, had shared a photo captioned "Welcome home!" There was Derek at the Somerset Club, surrounded by friends, a glass of whiskey in hand and his collar casually open—the universal sign he was relaxed and enjoying himself.

I ate my cold dinner alone, fighting the tears that threatened to fall into my plate. The salmon that had taken me hours to perfect now tasted like the ashes of my expectations.

After meticulously cleaning the kitchen—a ritual that always calmed me—I took a long shower, letting the hot water wash away my disappointment. I thought about the pattern of Derek's returns: the anticipation, the preparation, the inevitable letdown.

Wrapped in my silk nightgown, I settled into our king-sized bed, my fingers instinctively finding the silver star pendant at my throat—the only gift Derek had ever given me. He'd bought it hastily the day before our wedding, when someone pointed out he hadn't given me an engagement present. I cherished it anyway.

Unable to sleep, I recalled the day I first arrived at the Wells home. I was thirteen, newly orphaned after my parents' deaths in that financial fraud scandal that no one in the Wells family ever discussed. I was terrified, clutching my small suitcase. Fifteen-year-old Derek had barely acknowledged me, too busy with his lacrosse gear to notice the scared girl in his foyer. How strange that over ten years, we'd gone from strangers to family, only to become strangers again after marriage.

The sound of the bedroom door opening startled me from my thoughts. I sat up quickly, pulse racing, the silk sheets whispering against my skin like secrets being exchanged.

Footsteps crossed the threshold—deliberate, measured, achingly familiar. I couldn't see clearly in the dim amber glow of my bedside lamp, but I could sense his presence, electric and unavoidable as a gathering storm. The faint scent of expensive cologne and whiskey drifted across the room, wrapping around me like invisible tendrils.

Then I heard it—my name, spoken in a voice both intimately familiar and strangely foreign, as if the three years of absence had altered its very texture.

"Eleanor."

chapter 2

Derek POV

"Mr. Wells, we'll be landing in twenty minutes," my assistant, Markus, said, handing me a leather portfolio. "I've prepared your Boston itinerary, including tomorrow's meeting with Frontier Capital's executive team."

I nodded absently, staring out the window as Boston's skyline came into view. Nearly three years had passed since I'd agreed to this absurd marriage—a temporary arrangement that had felt like a prison sentence. London had been both my escape and my proving ground. While fleeing from a marriage I never wanted, I'd also been determined to show my father and Alexander that the second son of the Wells family was more than capable of building something significant without the family name clearing the path.

The irony wasn't lost on me—running from one familial obligation had led to my greatest professional success. Frontier Capital had flourished under my direction, growing from a modest venture to a respected name in London's financial district.

My phone vibrated with an incoming message from Thomas: [Welcome back to civilization. Somerset Club at 8. No excuses. The prodigal son needs a proper homecoming.]

I smiled despite myself. Some things never changed, including Thomas's flair for the dramatic.

At Logan International Airport, several photographers captured my arrival—the financial press never seemed to tire of documenting the movements of Boston's elite. I instinctively straightened my posture and adopted the perfect Wells family expression: confident but not arrogant, successful but approachable, wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

"Welcome back to Boston, Mr. Wells," my driver said, taking my bag. "Mr. Stone mentioned he's arranged a gathering at the club tonight."

I checked my watch. Seven.

"Take me directly to the club," I instructed, settling into the backseat of the black Bentley.

As we drove through familiar Boston streets, my mind drifted to the first time I saw Eleanor—a skinny thirteen-year-old from the state system, standing awkwardly in our marble foyer with that small, battered suitcase. I was fifteen then, more concerned with lacrosse practice than the terrified girl my parents had decided to take in. She had looked so lost, so out of place among the antiques and old money that filled our home.

The car pulled up to the private club, its brick façade and discreet entrance revealing nothing of the luxury within. Thomas was waiting in the lobby, his six-foot-four frame impossible to miss.

"The prodigal son returns!" Thomas boomed, pulling me into a crushing embrace.

"The London financial king finally deigns to visit the colonies," he continued, guiding me toward the bar. "How gracious of you."

I just chuckled as we settled into leather chairs in a corner of the bar, away from curious ears.

"So," Thomas said, lowering his voice, "feeling strange being back? I bet London's changed you."

I laughed, taking a sip of the scotch he'd ordered for me. "Boston seems smaller somehow."

"Speaking of differences," Thomas grinned, leaning forward conspiratorially, "how do London ladies compare to our Boston girls? I've always heard British women are more... reserved."

"A gentleman never tells," I replied with a smirk, grateful for the easy conversation.

Thomas nodded, not pressing further. That's what I appreciated about him—he never pushed where he wasn't wanted.

As more friends arrived for the impromptu welcome party, I felt myself relaxing slightly. Here, among people who wanted nothing from me beyond being Derek Wells, financial wunderkind, I could breathe more easily.

"To Derek," Thomas announced, raising his glass when our private room was filled with familiar faces. "Our financial genius has returned from conquering London. Wall Street beware!"

The evening progressed with easy conversation and expensive whiskey. I noticed how carefully everyone avoided mentioning Eleanor directly. They all knew the truth about our arrangement—the marriage of convenience to please my dying grandmother, the three-year timeline, the inevitable divorce. Their discretion was a kindness I hadn't expected but appreciated nonetheless.

"We should drink until dawn," Thomas declared around nine, ordering another bottle of aged scotch. "Like the old days."

"Can't do it tonight," I replied, already standing. "Meeting tomorrow with my father. Need to be sharp."

As I prepared to leave, I realized I hadn't decided where to spend the night. My parents' house would be quiet, predictable—but would also come with questions I wasn't ready to answer. The townhouse on Beacon Hill meant facing Eleanor after nearly a year since my last brief visit.

"Going home to the wife?" Thomas asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"It's late," I said simply, making my decision. "Might as well."

In the car heading toward Beacon Hill, exhaustion settled over me like a heavy blanket. I leaned back against the leather seat, closing my eyes briefly. Images of Eleanor floated through my mind—not just the child she'd been, but the woman she'd become.

There had been a time, during my adolescence, when I'd felt something stirring whenever she smiled at me across the breakfast table or when I caught her reading in the library, completely absorbed in her book. But Father's expectations had been relentless—Wells men focused on achievement, not sentiment. I'd buried those feelings, channeling everything into academics, sports, and later, finance.

The irony that she'd eventually become my wife wasn't lost on me. By then, whatever youthful attraction I might have felt had been replaced by resentment at being manipulated into marriage. Now we existed in an awkward limbo—legally bound but practically strangers. I'd found that maintaining a certain aloofness made our rare interactions easier, creating a buffer between us that protected us both.

The car pulled up to our townhouse on Beacon Hill. Looking up, I noticed a light still on in the second-floor bedroom. Eleanor was awake.

I used my key to enter, stepping into the darkened ground floor. Flipping on the light switch, I was struck by the immaculate condition of the place. Somehow, this perfection irritated me—a reminder of the pristine façade of our marriage, beautiful but hollow.

I moved toward the bedroom, not bothering to be quiet. Our inevitable encounter might as well happen now. Pushing open the door, I called out, "Eleanor," then waiting for her response.

Eleanor sat up in bed, clearly startled by my entrance. The warm glow of the bedside lamp cast a golden light across her features. Her loose silk nightgown had slipped off one shoulder, revealing smooth, pale skin beneath. The thin fabric left little to the imagination, outlining her slender frame, delicate collarbones, and gentle curves I'd rarely allowed myself to acknowledge.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry as unwanted heat surged through me. In the nearly three years since our marriage, Eleanor seemed to have gained a certain softness, a quiet allure that I couldn't remember noticing before. Perhaps it had always been there, and I'd been too determined to keep my distance to see it. The lamplight played across her features, highlighting a maturity and elegance that caught me off guard.

This was purely physical, I told myself. A normal male reaction to an attractive woman—nothing more. I had never fallen for Eleanor and never would, despite what my body might suggest in this moment. This was just biology, not emotion.

In that moment, I was unable to move or speak, caught between primal want and the walls I'd built around myself for protection.

chapter 3

Eleanor POV

"Eleanor."

The familiar voice pulled me from my memories. I looked up, startled by the figure in the doorway. Derek stood there—my husband, though that word had felt increasingly hollow over our two years of separation.

"Derek?" I could barely believe my eyes, my voice hardly above a whisper. The silk of my nightgown slipped from my shoulder as I stared at him, momentarily robbed of coherent thought.

I blinked rapidly, trying to process the shock of his presence. He was undeniably real, his tall frame casting long shadows across our bedroom floor. The faint scent of expensive whiskey drifted toward me.

"I thought you weren't coming home tonight," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady despite the chaos of emotions within me.

"And where did you expect me to stay?" Derek asked, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

"I didn't mean—" I faltered, gathering the sheets around me. "I just didn't anticipate you'd return to the apartment tonight." I mumbled under my breath, "It's not like you enjoy being around me anyway."

Derek let out a cold laugh. "This apartment is in my name, isn't it? Do I need your permission to come and go?"

His words stung, as they were meant to. I swallowed hard, reminding myself that showing hurt would only make things worse. "Of course not," I replied, my voice cooling slightly. "I simply wasn't expecting you."

I watched him remove his suit jacket and hang it carefully in the closet. Every movement was precise, controlled—so different from the animated Derek I'd known in our brief months of happiness. London had changed him. Or perhaps this was who he'd always been, and I'd simply been too blinded by love to see it.

"You haven't asked why I'm back," he remarked, unbuttoning his cuffs.

I didn't dare tell him the truth—that I feared the answer would be about our impending divorce. "I assumed it was business," I said instead, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.

Derek made a noncommittal sound. "Your flower shop seems to be doing well. I heard about it at the club tonight."

The knowledge that he'd been discussing me with others while ignoring my texts sent a fresh wave of hurt through me. "Yes, Four Seasons Florals has been quite successful. We've expanded to corporate accounts and wedding services."

"Wedding services," he repeated, a hint of irony in his voice. "How fitting."

I couldn't decipher what he meant by that, and I wasn't sure I wanted to. "Are you hungry?" I asked, changing the subject. "I could heat something for you."

"No need. I ate at the club with Thomas."

Of course he had. While I'd been sitting at our dining table alone, staring at the untouched salmon I'd prepared, he'd been enjoying himself with friends. The social media post I'd seen earlier flashed through my mind.

"I'm going to take a shower," Derek said, already loosening his tie.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as he disappeared into the bathroom. Soon I heard the shower running, and I exhaled slowly, only then realizing I'd been holding my breath. Two years. Two years since we'd shared this space, this bed. Two years of me pretending our marriage was simply on pause rather than effectively over.

I reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled out a novel I hadn't started yet, trying to focus on the words, but they blurred before my eyes. The sound of water running in the shower was distracting, making it impossible not to picture Derek on the other side of that door. Water cascading over his shoulders, down his chest...

"Stop it," I whispered to myself, closing the book with more force than necessary. This was precisely why I couldn't move on—these persistent fantasies about a man who had made it abundantly clear that he viewed our marriage as nothing more than an obligation.

Minutes stretched endlessly. I tried to concentrate on my book again but found myself reading the same paragraph over and over without comprehension. The water finally shut off, and I braced myself for Derek's return.

The bathroom door opened, and Derek emerged with only a towel wrapped low around his hips, his chest bare and still glistening with water droplets. I gasped involuntarily.

"Ah! I'm sorry!" I stammered, quickly turning away. "Do you... do you need me to get you pajamas?"

Derek's tone was mocking. "This is my own home. I'll dress however I want. You can like it or lump it."

An awkward silence fell between us. I could smell the expensive body wash he used, the scent making me slightly dizzy.

"Need I remind you," I said carefully, "that we've barely seen each other for two of those three years."

Derek didn't respond immediately. He moved to the dresser and retrieved a pair of pajama bottoms, dropping the towel to put them on. I inadvertently caught sight of the noticeable bulge in his shorts, and heat immediately rushed to my face. I quickly averted my eyes, my heart racing and my body feeling strangely tense. The reaction annoyed me.

Derek walked to his side of the bed and pulled back the covers, sliding in beside me. "Regardless," he finally said, "this is my home too. I'll dress as I please."

The mattress dipped under his weight, and I was acutely aware of the mere foot of space separating us—a distance that felt simultaneously vast and insufficient. For two years, I'd slept alone in this king-sized bed, gradually migrating to the center. Now, I was hyperconscious of staying firmly on my side.

"You..." I began, then paused, gathering my courage. "Is there something special happening? Is that why you're back in Boston?"

The question hung in the air between us. I wanted desperately to ask if he was here to finalize our divorce, but fear kept me from being more direct.

"It doesn't concern you," he said eventually, his voice cold. "Act like I'm not even here. Isn't that how we've managed for years?"

His words cut deep, but I refused to let him see how much they hurt. I simply nodded and turned away from him. "Goodnight, Derek," I said softly.

"Goodnight," he replied, turning his back to me.

I lay motionless, listening to Derek's breathing gradually slow and deepen. My hand crept up to touch the silver star pendant at my throat—the only gift he'd ever given me, presented as an afterthought when he proposed. To him, it had likely been a meaningless trinket, but to me, it had become precious beyond measure.

Sleep eluded me completely. Derek's presence was too distracting, too unfamiliar yet achingly familiar all at once. After about half an hour, when I was certain he must be asleep, I allowed myself to inch closer to his warmth, moving carefully to avoid disturbing him. Just a little closer, I told myself. Just to feel less alone.

Then, unexpectedly, Derek rolled over. His arm slid around my waist, pulling me against his chest with surprising strength. I froze, hardly daring to breathe as his hand moved upward beneath my nightgown, finding and cupping my breast. A soft gasp escaped me, my body instantly responding to his touch despite all my mental protests.

I knew this was likely just physical for him—a man's instinctive reaction to a woman in his bed. It meant nothing emotional.

Yet in that moment, logic held no power over me. I leaned into his touch, allowing myself this small comfort, this brief illusion that he might actually want me.

chapter 4

Eleanor POV

I woke to an empty bed, the sheets beside me cold. My hand reached out, searching for Derek's warmth, but found only rumpled bedding. The memories of last night flooded back—his arm pulling me close, his hand on my breast, my body's embarrassing response to his touch.

Had it all been a dream? No, the faint scent of his cologne lingering on the pillow confirmed it had been real.

I sat up slowly, wondering if Derek had regretted the moment of intimacy. It wouldn't be surprising; he'd made it clear enough how he felt about our marriage. Three years of obligation, nothing more.

With less than two months left on our contract, any physical attraction between us was irrelevant—a mere biological response that meant nothing.

Throwing back the covers, I slipped into my robe and ran a hand through my tangled hair. The apartment was quiet, but not empty. I could feel Derek's presence, a subtle shift in the air that had been absent during his two years in London.

I padded barefoot down the hallway, following the faint sound of typing. Derek sat at the dining table, his attention fixed on his laptop screen. The sight of him—so at home yet so foreign in our shared space—sent an ache through my chest.

"Good morning," I said softly.

Derek glanced up briefly before returning his gaze to the screen. "Morning."

"You're up early," I ventured, trying to sound casual despite the awkwardness between us. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Already made some."

Sure enough, the coffee pot was half empty. I poured myself a cup, noticing that Derek had used the French press I'd bought during his absence—a small luxury I'd allowed myself with the money from my growing business.

"Where's Mrs. Hughes?" Derek asked suddenly. "She usually has breakfast prepared by now."

I froze mid-sip. "I let her go," I replied, keeping my voice even. "About one month ago."

Derek finally looked up from his screen, his expression incredulous. "You fired our housekeeper? Without consulting me?"

"You weren't here to consult," I pointed out, surprising myself with my directness. "And yes, I let her go. I've been managing the apartment myself since then."

Derek's jaw tightened. "Mrs. Hughes has worked for my family for years. My mother won't be pleased."

"I'm aware," I said, moving to the refrigerator. "Would you like some breakfast? I can make French toast."

Derek looked like he wanted to say more about Mrs. Hughes, but instead nodded curtly. "Fine."

I busied myself with breakfast preparation, cracking eggs into a bowl and adding cinnamon and vanilla—small touches that transformed basic French toast into something special. As I dipped bread slices into the mixture, I felt Derek's eyes on me.

"Why did you fire Mrs. Hughes?" he asked after a moment.

I focused on placing the bread in the hot pan, watching it sizzle. "She wasn't a good fit."

"She was a perfect fit for two generations of Wells family members," Derek countered.

I flipped the toast, perhaps with more force than necessary. "Well, she wasn't a good fit for me."

When I set the plate in front of Derek a few minutes later, he frowned at the simple breakfast. "This is it? Just French toast?"

Something in me snapped. "You can like it or lump it."

The words left my mouth before I could stop them—his own phrase from last night thrown back at him. I froze, shocked at my own audacity. Derek looked equally surprised, his fork suspended midway to his mouth.

I waited for his sharp retort, but it never came. Instead, he simply cut into the toast and took a bite, his expression unreadable.

A small rustling sound from behind the sofa broke the tense silence. Derek's head snapped up. "What was that?"

Before I could answer, a small golden retriever puppy scampered into view, its paws skidding slightly on the hardwood floor as it bounded toward me with unbridled enthusiasm.

"What the hell?" Derek set down his fork with a clatter. "Where did that come from?"

I bent to pick up the puppy, who immediately tried to lick my face. I laughed as his little pink tongue darted across my cheek. "This is Sunny," I said, unable to keep the defensiveness from my voice. "I found him last week."

I sat on the floor, letting Sunny climb onto my lap. He rolled over, exposing his belly for rubs, his tail thumping against the hardwood floor in pure joy. I couldn't help but smile as I scratched his soft fur, his little paws batting playfully at my hands.

Derek's expression darkened as he watched our interaction. "Found him where, exactly?"

"Outside my flower shop on Newbury Street," I explained, still petting the excited puppy. "It was pouring rain, and he was huddled in the doorway, completely soaked and shivering. I couldn't just leave him there."

"So you brought a stray dog into our home?" Derek's voice was cold. "There are animal shelters all over Boston for situations like this."

"He's not a stray anymore," I replied firmly, letting Sunny playfully nibble at my fingers. "I've already taken him to the vet. He's had all his vaccinations and a full health check."

Derek sneezed suddenly, his expression morphing from annoyance to alarm. "I'm allergic to dogs. You know that."

"You're mildly allergic," I corrected. "And you're hardly ever here anyway." The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Reminding Derek of his absence wasn't going to help my case.

"That's not the point," he said, standing up from the table. "You can't just make unilateral decisions about bringing animals into our home."

"Our home?" I repeated, setting the puppy down. "This hasn't felt like our home in a very long time, Derek. It's been my home, where I live alone while you're in London doing whatever—or whoever—you please."

Derek's eyes flashed. "Don't be crass, Eleanor. It doesn't suit you."

"And don't pretend you care about what happens in this apartment when you've been gone for two years," I shot back. "Sunny stays. As long as I'm living here, he stays too."

Derek stepped closer, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Are you issuing ultimatums now? That's new."

"No," I said quietly. "I'm simply setting boundaries. Something I should have done a long time ago."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Sunny whined softly at my feet, sensing the tension. Finally, Derek stepped back, adjusting his tie.

"I need to get to my meeting," he said, his voice controlled. "We'll discuss this later."

"There's nothing to discuss," I replied, bending to pick up Sunny again.

Derek gathered his laptop and briefcase. "While I was in London, you've changed quite a bit, Eleanor. I'm not sure I like it."

I straightened my spine. "And do you think I care or not?" I asked, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

Derek stared at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he turned toward the door without responding.

I followed with Sunny in my arms, intending to take him for a morning walk after Derek left. I set the puppy down to slip into my shoes, bending over to fasten the small buckles on my flats.

When I straightened, I caught Derek staring at me, his gaze traveling up the length of my body with unmistakable interest. The moment our eyes met, he quickly looked away, hastily reaching for the doorknob.

As the door closed behind him, I couldn't suppress a soft laugh. I'd caught that look—the one he always tried to hide.

I'd known it from the beginning: Derek Wells might be able to resist my heart, but he could never fully resist my body. That small victory, at least, was mine to savor.

Chapter 5

Eleanor POV

The morning at Four Seasons Florals was a whirlwind of activity. I'd received a last-minute commission to create centerpieces for the Boston Symphony Orchestra's charity gala—a prestigious event that could bring significant visibility to my shop.

While working on sketches for the gala pieces, the bell above the door chimed constantly as customers streamed in throughout the morning.

A young man nervously selected roses for a first date. An elderly gentleman purchased a weekly bouquet for his wife of fifty years—a tradition he'd maintained faithfully every Thursday. A harried executive rushed in for a last-minute anniversary arrangement, grateful when I assembled something beautiful in minutes.

Between customers, I carefully conditioned the fresh shipment of peonies that had arrived from Holland, their lush petals still tightly furled but promising spectacular blooms. My assistant helped a bride-to-be choose flowers for her winter wedding while I finished a delicate arrangement of orchids for a regular client's home office.

By two o'clock, I realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I unwrapped a sandwich with one hand while sorting through email orders with the other. Sunny dozed contentedly in the small bed I'd set up behind the counter, occasionally waking to watch customers with curious eyes.

My phone rang just as I finished approving a wedding proposal for next spring. Catherine Wells' name flashed on the screen, sending a jolt of anxiety through me. My mother-in-law rarely called unless something was wrong—or unless she wanted something.

"Hello, Catherine," I answered, keeping my voice pleasant.

"Eleanor." Her tone was cool, as always. "I need you to come to the house this evening. There's a matter we need to discuss."

No greeting, no pleasantries. Typical Catherine. "I'm quite busy with a commission for the Symphony gala," I explained. "And I have plans with Olivia after closing the shop."

"This won't take long," she replied, in a tone that made it clear she wasn't making a request. "Six o'clock. You'll still have plenty of time for your... social engagements afterward."

The line went dead before I could respond. I stared at the phone, a familiar knot forming in my stomach. Visits to the Wells mansion were never pleasant affairs for me. Despite having lived there from age thirteen until my marriage to Derek, I'd always felt like an intruder in their world. Now that Derek and I had our own apartment, I avoided the mansion whenever possible.

I called Olivia for moral support, but got her voicemail. "Catherine summoned me to the Wells fortress," I said after the beep. "If I don't call you by seven, send a search party. Or better yet, a good lawyer."

The Wells mansion was a monument to old Boston money—a five-story brownstone with immaculate grounds and a view of the Common. As the car service dropped me off at the wrought-iron gates, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever awaited inside.

Catherine received me in the sitting room, perfectly poised in a cream Chanel suit, her silver-streaked hair swept into an elegant chignon. She didn't rise when I entered, merely gestured to the chair across from her.

"You're late," she noted, though my watch showed it was exactly six o'clock.

"I came directly from the shop," I said, sitting down. "What did you want to discuss?"

Catherine studied me for a moment. "Mrs. Hughes called me yesterday."

Of course. I should have known this was coming. "I see."

"She was quite upset," Catherine continued. "After fifteen years of loyal service to our family, she was dismissed without warning or explanation."

I met my mother-in-law's gaze steadily. "I had my reasons."

"Which were?"

I hesitated, memories flooding back. One month ago, I'd overheard Mrs. Hughes on the phone with a friend, unaware I was in the apartment. "Derek's in London chasing other girls," she'd said. "Poor Eleanor, married for convenience and too naive to see it. Everyone knows he was forced to marry her as some kind of family obligation. The whole thing's a farce."

The words had cut deep, not because they were untrue, but because they were painful truths I'd been trying to ignore. What hurt most was knowing that our staff—people I lived with and trusted—viewed me with such pity and disdain.

"I overheard her discussing my marriage in inappropriate terms," I told Catherine, keeping my explanation vague. "She crossed a line."

Catherine's nails tapped against the armrest. "Household staff gossip, Eleanor. It's what they do. A woman of your position should be above such petty concerns."

A woman of my position. The words stung. Even after all these years, Catherine still saw me as the charity case—the orphaned girl her family had graciously taken in, never quite one of them.

"A woman in my position deserves basic respect in her own home," I countered quietly.

Catherine's eyes narrowed slightly. "This is about more than Mrs. Hughes, isn't it? Derek mentioned you've become... assertive during his absence."

I almost laughed. Derek and I had barely exchanged a dozen sentences since his return, yet he'd found time to complain about me to his mother. "Perhaps I've simply grown tired of being treated as an afterthought in my own marriage."

"The terms of your arrangement with Derek were always clear," Catherine said, her voice hardening. "Three years. That was the agreement when you accepted his proposal."

"I'm well aware of the terms," I replied, fighting to keep my voice steady. The reminder that our marriage had an expiration date—that it had been a business transaction rather than a union of love—never failed to hurt.

Catherine leaned forward slightly. "Have you already discussed divorce with Derek? Is that why he seems distracted?"

The directness of her question caught me off guard. The eagerness in her tone was unmistakable—she wanted this marriage over as much as Derek did.

"No," I said, my voice barely audible. "We haven't discussed it yet."

"I see." Catherine sat back, disappointment flashing briefly across her features before her composed mask returned. "Well, the three-year mark approaches. I assume you'll be honoring the agreement."

It wasn't a question. It was a reminder—a warning, perhaps—that I was expected to walk away quietly when the time came. The prenuptial agreement ensured I'd be financially comfortable, but not wealthy by Wells standards. I would return to being what I'd always been in their eyes: an outsider who had temporarily occupied space in their world.

"Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?" I asked, rising from my seat. I couldn't bear to sit across from her for another minute, watching her plan my exit from her son's life.

Catherine studied me for a long moment. "You've changed, Eleanor. London seems to have had quite an effect on Derek—and on you, despite the distance between you."

I didn't bother correcting her assumption that I'd been to London. Let her believe what she wanted. "People change, Catherine. Even those of us who weren't born into privilege."

As I gathered my purse and turned to leave, the sitting room door opened. Derek walked in with his father, Jonathan, both dressed in impeccable suits from what appeared to be a business meeting. Their sudden appearance stopped me in my tracks.

Derek's eyes met mine briefly before sliding away, his expression unreadable. Jonathan, however, offered a polite smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"Eleanor," he said, sounding genuinely surprised. "I didn't know you were visiting. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

The casual question hung in the air as I felt Catherine's gaze on my back and Derek's studied indifference before me—three Wells family members boxing me in with their collective presence.

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