Chapter 4

When Anson heard Eleanor, his first thought was that she had lost her mind.

He studied her carefully, as if to make sure she was not joking.

Eleanor kept her arm around Rory, her smile unwavering. "What, you don't want to?"

Anson opened his mouth and nearly blurted out, ‘We're about to get divorced anyway, so you don't need to go to all this trouble.’

He swallowed the words just before they left his mouth.

The divorce was not final yet. If he showed his hand now, with Eleanor's temper being what it was, she would turn every law firm in Saltmere upside down to stop it.

Just then, Rory nestled closer against Eleanor, his voice full of concern.

"Ms. Vandermeer, do you want Anson to see how I live? My place is awful, though. Someone as pampered as Anson could never handle that kind of life. Why not let him stay here? I really don't mind."

Eleanor pinched Rory's cheek, her tone teasing.

"Don't worry, he can handle it. Anson's father was a gambler, and his mother was a bar hostess. It's not like he comes from a respectable background."

She looked at Anson, a hint of hidden anticipation in her eyes.

"Besides, if he really can't take it, all he has to do is beg me. You think I wouldn't give in?"

Anson understood. Eleanor did not want to humiliate or punish him. She wanted to tame him.

He nodded with complete composure. "Fine. I'll go pack."

Eleanor was taken aback. Surprise flickered in her eyes before deeper irritation took over.

Half an hour later, Anson walked out the door carrying a single, plain suitcase.

The car crossed half of Saltmere and finally stopped in front of a run-down old building in the slums.

It was the same rental from years ago. The stairwell was cramped, the walls were stained and peeling, and the air reeked of damp mildew.

Inside, the apartment looked exactly the same. Even the creaky iron bed frame had never been replaced.

Anson stood in the doorway and suddenly smiled.

Years ago, Eleanor had cut ties with her family to marry him and lived here with him for three months.

Those had been the happiest days of his life.

Back then, Eleanor only had eyes for him.

Back then, he still believed true love lasted forever.

He set down his suitcase, walked to the window, and pushed open the dusty pane.

From the street below came the calls of roadside vendors, the shrieks of children at play, and the familiar sound of neighbors yelling at each other.

He took a deep breath, and for a moment it felt as if he had truly gone back in time.

However, the buildings in the slums had always been shabby, and no amount of upkeep could hold out against time.

Anson had lived there only a few days when a hurricane hit Saltmere.

That night, he had just laid down when a loud crash rang out. The wind had blown the window in, and glass shattered across the floor.

Then the wiring shorted, and the lights went dead.

He fumbled in the dark for something to cover the window and stepped on a shard of glass, sucking in a sharp breath at the pain.

Wind and rain poured in, hitting him so hard he could barely stay on his feet, and he was soaked to the bone.

Sometime after midnight, he started running a fever.

His head was heavy and foggy, and his body swung between chills and burning heat. He curled up on the bed as his consciousness slowly slipped away.

Half asleep, he remembered a storm just like this one seven years ago. He and Eleanor had squeezed together on this same bed, and she had held him and told him not to be afraid because she was there.

On instinct, he pulled out his phone to call Eleanor.

The signal kept cutting out. He tried several times before the call finally went through.

The voice on the other end froze him.

Rory's voice was low, husky, and dazed. "Ms. Vandermeer, kiss me."

Eleanor sounded languid and satisfied. "What is it?"

Rory's tone turned coaxing. "What were you saying earlier? Who's better, me or Anson?"

Eleanor laughed. "You're better than him."

Rory refused to let it go. "Better how?"

"He's stiff, uptight, and never lets go." Eleanor's voice was careless. "You're more obedient than he is, more understanding, and much better at taking care of me."

She paused before adding, with a note of contempt in her voice, "He's been living the good life as my husband for seven years, and he's forgotten where he came from. A few days of roughing it in the slums will remind him who's been good to him."

Outside, the wind and rain still raged. Anson was burning up, and his wound was still bleeding, yet whatever warmth had been left in his heart slowly went cold.

He laughed at his own foolishness for still holding out any hope for Eleanor.

He ended the call. Alone in the dark, he curled up on the bed and listened to the howling wind, with no tears left to cry.