Eleanor Bonneville Novels & Stories

The golden pavilion of the Metropolitan Museum buzzed with the high-society elite, but around the small circle of the Vance and Sterling families, the atmosphere had dropped to a sub-zero chill. "Alexander! Seraphina, darling!" Eleanor’s voice was high-pitched and dripping with false maternal affection as she closed the distance between them. Her silk wrap fluttered, and the heavy pearls cascading down her neck clicked softly against one another. "What a magnificent turnout. We are just so incredibly proud to see our girl settling into the Sterling family so beautifully. It truly feels like a match ordained by heaven."

She paid the bills, collected her medication, and called a cab. The ride back to the house she shared with Nicholas was quiet. She spent the whole time looking out the window as the city passed by in a blur. The cab stopped in front of the huge mansion that was her home. Or at least, it was supposed to be. But it had never felt like one. Eleanor paid the driver and made her way inside. The first person to greet her as soon as she stepped in was the housekeeper, Luna. “Mrs. Beaumont, you’re back!”

"Eleanor will be interviewing for that team soon.” Now both of them had left their table and were standing beside mine. My stomach dropped. He'd noticed me. Of course he'd noticed me. How long had I been staring like some creepy stalker? I didn't know what I would say if they asked to sit here. "Eleanor, this is Charlie," Sebastian continued, gesturing to the woman. "My assistant. The one you've been corresponding with." "Oh." I blinked at her, my brain trying to reconcile the efficient, businesslike emails with this elegant woman. "I'm so sorry, I thought—based on the tone and the name, I assumed you were—"

Chapter Twenty-One Eleanor's POV I stared at myself in the mirror for what felt like the tenth time, still trying to get used to the woman looking back at me. Julian had bought the dress for me today, claiming it would be appropriate for the company dinner. I hadn't asked for anything extravagant, but the dress was far more elegant than what I would normally choose for myself. It fell neatly over my figure, fitted long dress which had a slit up my thighs and it looked very sexy bringing out my curves.

The roof was down despite the uncertain English sky. Eleanor Evans climbed out wearing oversized sunglasses, wide-legged white linen trousers, flat leather sandals, and a silk scarf tied over her hair. She looked prepared for a coast road in southern France rather than a September Sunday outside London. She removed her sunglasses and stared at the Maybach. “Whose funeral?”

Cassandra, as always, would take advantage of people's weaknesses. Eleanor, who had been about to leave after going to the bathroom, put her phone away in her bag after hanging up. Raising her head, she looked in the mirror — her hair was a little messy, and there was a trace of struggle in her eyes. She took a deep breath. Lowering her head, she splashed cold water on her face. About ten minutes or so later, Eleanor returned to the coffee shop from the bathroom. What she didn't realise was that when the waitress in the coffee shop saw her return to sit opposite Writer Vane, a strange look flashed in her eyes.

And standing in front of it was Eleanor. She wasn't wearing a lab coat. She was wearing a simple, dark dress, her hair disheveled, her eyes sunken. She looked like a woman who had been living in a bunker for weeks, which she had. She didn't look up when we entered. She was staring at the glass cylinder with a look of terrifying, maternal longing. "She’s almost ready," Eleanor said. Her voice was a dry rasp, devoid of its usual melodic control. "The lattice is 98% mapped. She won't have your flaws, Isabella. She won't have the Sterling corruption. She’ll be the perfect archive."

Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she rushed over, linking her arm through mine with a possessive grip. "You look so handsome, Damien," she gushed, her voice high and girlish. "Thank you, Claire. You look lovely," I replied, the compliment sounding hollow even to my own ears. Eleanor swept over to us, wearing an emerald green silk. Her silver hair was down like a waterfall, and she looked twenty times younger than her age. The fortune she spent on skin care was paying off. She gave Claire an approving smile and then fixed her steely gaze on me.

“I heard about your parents just now. Good for you, standing up to them. They’ve been insufferable for years, always going on about their perfect Vivienne while ignoring what a gem they had in you.” I blinked, surprised. “You know about that?” “Darling, everyone knows. Catherine Sinclair has been boring people about her twins for decades. Some of us were just waiting for you to finally show them what you’re made of.” She winks. “Marrying a billionaire and making your sister look like the fool she is? Perfect revenge.” Despite everything, I laugh. “I like you,” Eleanor declares. “Dante, you’ve chosen well. Don’t fuck it up.”

They were both tiny and beautiful, but so far they seemed as different as chalk and cheese. She had noticed that Eleanor didn’t seek attention at all. She dressed comfortably and simply. The fabric was as fine as any lady, but the dresses were not as elaborate and had fewer layers. She was well spoken in English, knew little Scotts, and was keen to pick up more. She was often quiet, and she seemed to hide from men whenever she could. That Izzy understood. Perhaps as bonny as she was, Eleanor had learned what men would do if given the chance and started hiding for the same reasons she herself hid from her father and his friends. Ellie was the kindest and most gentle soul Izzy had ever met, wi