Chapter Fifteen

Eleanor. 

The moment I shut the heavy double doors behind me, I paste the smile back on.

It’s brittle at first, my lips trembling as though they would rather shape into a snarl, but I force them into a perfect curve. A curve the cameras will read as elegance, not chaos. Because if there’s one thing I learned in my absence, it’s that the world feeds on weakness. And tonight, I’ll starve them.

The ballroom blazes with chandeliers and laughter, music swelling to cover the whispers already spreading like wildfire. I glide through it, shoulders square, heels sharp against the polished marble. I sip from a flute of champagne, though the bubbles fizz against the knot in my stomach.

Cameras still flash, guests still murmur, but I give them nothing except poise.

“Eleanor, over here!”

“Smile for us, welcome back!”

“Tell us where you have been for the past five yeas!”

I turn my head slightly, letting the light catch the diamond at my throat. My smile widens, soft but untouchable, the kind that answers nothing but says everything. I laugh lightly at something a socialite whispers in my ear, though I don’t hear the words. My body moves on autopilot, every gesture calculated, every glance rehearsed.

Inside, I’m shaking.

I can feel Jake somewhere behind me, the heat of his stare like a brand searing my back. I don’t turn. Not again. My confrontation with him in that corridor already stole enough of me. I won’t give him more. Not here. Not now.

The night stretches on, though it’s only minutes. I twirl through conversations, nodding politely, answering nothing. I’m both a ghost and a spectacle, everyone’s curiosity but no one’s confidante.

And when the crowd is drunk on champagne and gossip, when eyes drift elsewhere and the frenzy softens, I slip out.

No cameras this time. No flashbulbs. Just me, sliding into the night with the same silence I carried for years.

The car was waiting for me upfront, the city sprawling beyond it. I sink into the backseat, the leather cool against my skin, my chest collapsing once the door shuts. The driver asks nothing. He knows better.

"How was your first day out ma'am" the driver asks as soon as I settle into the back seat. 

"Exhausting." I answer plainly, meaning it though. 

The ride is quiet, just the hum of the engine and the muffled throb of New York beyond the glass. I lean my head back, staring at the ceiling, my hands tightening in my lap. The mask slips, inch by inch, until I’m just Eleanor again tired, brittle, stitched together by defiance and grief.

Home greets me softly. The brownstone is dark, the street outside hushed. I let myself in with careful steps, each creak of the floorboard a reminder to be silent. My heels dangle from my hand now, my gown trailing behind me like the remnants of a battle I barely survived.

The house smells faintly of lavender and warm milk. Safe. Untouched by the storm outside.

I climb the stairs slowly, the adrenaline bleeding out of me, leaving only bone deep exhaustion. My hand brushes the banister, steadying me as though I’m afraid I might fall apart before I reach the top.

Finally, I push open the door.

The room is dim, lit only by the nightlight glowing in the corner. My breath catches, my throat tightening.

There they are.

My children. The reason that kept me sane all this years. 

My son sprawled across his bed, his small chest rising and falling in a rhythm that soothes the ache in mine. My daughter curled on her side, her tiny hand clutching the stuffed bear I bought her the day she was born. Their faces are soft in sleep, untouched by the cruelty of the world I just walked through.

I sink into the chair by their beds, my gown pooling around me. My hands tremble as I fold them in my lap, my eyes locked on the two people who matter more than any headline, any betrayal, any man.

For a long while, I don’t move. I just watch them breathe, each sigh a reminder of why I came back, why I fight to keep the pieces of myself intact.

The world thinks I returned for revenge. Maybe they’re right. Maybe part of me did.

But as I sit here, the gala lights and Jake’s haunted eyes fading into memory, I know the truth.

This, this quiet, this peace, this fragile safety wrapped in two small bodies is what I came back for.

Not the cameras.

Not the whispers.

Not even Jake Donovan.

My children.

I lean forward, brushing a stray curl from my daughter’s forehead. My throat aches as I whisper into the stillness, though they can’t hear me.

“Mama’s here. I’m not going anywhere this time.”

The words break something in me, but they stitch me back together too.

I sit there until the weight in my chest softens, until the storm inside me hushes to something bearable. Outside, the world will roar with questions come morning.

But tonight, here, in this quiet room, I have my answer.

I’m alive.

And for them, I’ll stay that way.