Shattered Vows And The Heiress's Revenge

Eleanor sat on the gravel. Her tears had dried into tight, itchy tracks on her cheeks. The violent shaking in her chest had stopped, leaving behind a hollow, numb cavern. She didn't pick up the shattered phone. She just stared at the dirt. A pair of blinding headlights cut through the gathering dusk. Eleanor shielded her eyes. She grabbed the guardrail and pulled herself up, her legs stiff and aching. She thought it was Stella. But as the vehicle rolled to a stop, the sleek, heavy grill of a black Bentley came into view. It wasn't Stella. The driver's side window rolled down smoothly. Victor Kowalski sat behind the wheel. His face was a blank, emotionless slate, exactly as it always was. "Mrs. Montgomery," Victor said. "Please get in." Eleanor didn't move. The cold wind whipped her hair across her face. She stared at Victor, her voice scraping out of her dry throat. "Did he send you?" Victor nodded once. "Mr. Montgomery instructed me ，he is handling an emergency situation, so let me take you home first." Emergency. Eleanor let out a short, hollow laugh. The sound was brittle enough to snap. His emergency was his dead lover. She wanted to scream at Victor to drive away. She wanted to wait for Stella. But the sky was turning a bruised purple, and the temperature was dropping fast. Survival instinct overrode her pride. She bent down, picked up her shattered phone, and opened the heavy rear door. She slid onto the leather seat. The heater blasted warm air against her frozen skin, a sickening contrast to the ice in her veins. The Bentley pulled away. The cabin was dead silent. Eleanor turned her head, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the darkness swallow the trees. Miles away, the smell of industrial bleach and rubbing alcohol burned Alistair's nostrils. He stood in the sterile hallway of St. Catalina Hospital, right outside the VIP suite. Through the rectangular glass window of the door, he stared at the hospital bed. Cordelia lay there. She looked impossibly fragile, her skin translucent against the white sheets. She was sleeping. The doctor had just left. Severe malnutrition. Post-traumatic stress. Extreme physical exhaustion. Alistair pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, rubbing hard. A crushing weight pressed down on his chest. Guilt. It was a suffocating, toxic guilt. Five years ago, he had pushed her to run away with him. If he hadn't, she never would have been on that boat. She never would have suffered for five years in a fishing village. He dropped his hand. He remembered the phone call in the car. He remembered the look of absolute terror on Eleanor's face when he shoved the door open and ordered her out. A sharp, unexpected spike of irritation flared in his gut. He knew he had crossed a line. He knew leaving a woman on a dirt road was unacceptable. But his brain had short-circuited. He couldn't process two realities at once. Alistair reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He stared at the screen. He didn't call Eleanor. He couldn't face the sound of her voice right now. He dialed Victor's number. "Did you get her?" Alistair asked the second the line connected. "Yes, sir," Victor's voice came through the speaker. "We are currently on route back to the estate." Alistair let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Make sure she gets inside safely." He hung up. He stared at the black screen of his phone. His heart was beating too fast. Why was he so anxious about Eleanor? She was safe. She was fine. The realization that he cared made the irritation in his gut burn hotter. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He pushed the heavy door open and walked into Cordelia's room, forcing his mind to focus on the fragile woman in the bed. The woman he owed his life to. Back in the Bentley, Eleanor's broken phone vibrated in her lap. The cracked screen lit up with Stella's name. Eleanor swiped to answer. "Stella." "Ellie! I'm almost at the pin, where are you?" "I'm in Victor's car," Eleanor said quietly. Her voice was completely devoid of emotion. "Alistair sent him. I'm going back to the estate. You can turn around." "Are you okay? Do you want me to come to the house?" "No," Eleanor said. She looked at her reflection in the dark window. Her eyes looked dead. "I'm fine, Stella. I'll call you tomorrow." She hung up before Stella could argue. She leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. The tears were gone. The panic was gone. Alistair had made his choice. He had drawn the battle lines on that dirt road. Eleanor took a deep, slow breath. When she opened her eyes, the dead look was gone. It was replaced by a cold, hard clarity. She was going back to the Montgomery estate. But she wasn't going back as a victim. The war was about to begin.