Eleanor Calder Louis Tomlinson Novels & Stories

JULIAN WARD SOAKED IN RED AT TECH EXPO. The influencer made a small, dramatic pout and gave the cameras a shrug, as if to say, Oops. But isn’t he a good sport? And then a new voice entered the scene. Sharp. Icy. Regal. “Get. Away. From him.” Every head turned. Eleanor Lancaster stood on the steps leading down into the gallery space, dressed in a black satin trench coat, her gray-streaked hair swept into a regal twist. Her heels clicked once on the stone as she descended like royalty entering a battlefield.

I said to Charles and he looked at me. “I’ll get you the paperwork,” he said to me. “Do you have the…” I handed him the medical report that Martin Whittier had sent to me the day before. “The description of the shoplifter then went out over the radio, pregnant woman, brown hair, brown eyes and around five foot two inches, right?” I asked Charles and he looked at me. I had already listened to it but I really wanted him to confirm it as well, to tell the truth. “Yes,” he said.

But the power dynamic had shifted completely. “Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the same chairs we'd occupied during her previous attempt at intimidation. “We'll stand,” Killian replied. “Suit yourself.” Eleanor settled into her throne-like chair with theatrical grace. “Now, what's this about?” “Isabella Martinez.” Eleanor's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind her eyes. “I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name.” “Maria Santos, then. Professional actress from Barcelona.” “Still not ringing any bells.”

“My goodness, you scared the life out of me!” Aunt Caroline was a short and plump woman in her mid-forties. Her hair was always dyed blonde because she took after her idol Madonna. She kept her face hidden with all the cosmetics she covered it. The only time she was seen without her make-up was when she applied facial mask. “Aunt Caroline? What’s got you all fired up?” Yet inside Ellaine’s head she was still thinking about the empty town and the huge tree. “You were having a bad dream!”

As we were in the middle of a scuffle between Philip and Jessica, a video started playing and I watched as Eleanor trembled. " Who captured this?"Eleanor asked. I saw that the video clip and picture had been displayed. What caught my attention was the same lady coming out to say she was the one. All this time she has been the one helping us out with the information of what was going on. If we had depended on ourselves alone, I am not sure we would have caught the culprit. That was the first time I heard her say her name " Eve Hunter" . The way the words left her lips made me want to capture her lips that moment.

“I'm Isla. Isla Hamilton.” The brunette smiled, “British huh? The accent sold you out. I am Eleanor Campbell.” “British? You didn't strike me as one.” Isla teased. “Damn. Guess I need to try hard.” They both shared a laugh before Eleanor spoke. “I was born and raised in America but of British descent.” “Cool,” Isla replied before glancing at her watch impatiently. “How long has it been?” she looked back at Eleanor. Eleanor shrugged her shoulders, “I don't know. I came in 5 minutes before you.”

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that her carefully laid-out plan would receive such a critique. Even she, a seasoned member of high society, was momentarily at a loss, only managing a stuttered, "M-Mr. Xanth…" However, her quick wit soon prevailed, and she found a way to respond. "Please accept my apologies for the inadequate display. Her calligraphy skills are merely surface-level, far from refined. However, I do have another piece that might be of interest..." Since Eleanor could not use Lizzie as a pawn, she was ready to use her as a stepping stone instead. Aware that Clover had been searching for an authentic piece from The Lindisfarne Gospels for Elijah, Eleanor was certain

“I’m Yolanda Jones, the chief designer of The Vault. As a part of your prize, you will be working under me.” “Oh, my god!” Eleanor turns to Andrew and hugs him tightly for everyone to see. Then, she turns to Yolanda and shakes her hand, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I’m honored beyond words to work with such a legend!” “Congratulations,” Yolanda mutters dryly.

They were the first thi⁠ng you saw when y‍ou entered, and t⁠he la‍st thing you s‌aw when you left. Eleanor Ster‍ling came for⁠ d⁠i‌nner, a now‍-regular, if still formal, occurren‍ce. She pause‍d in‌ the foyer‍, her‍ sharp eyes takin‍g in the two canvases. She looked from the‍ brutal hone‌sty‌ of Always to the triu⁠mphant h⁠ope of Becoming. For a‍ lon⁠g moment, she was silent‍.⁠

He was stating what he knew to be true, the same way he stated other things he knew to be true, with the quiet confidence of someone whose assessments had been reliable. I did not need the reassurance. But I took the knowing. We went in. Eleanor Sterling was sixty-four. I established this from the research I had done Thursday evening after Collins had gone to the study and I had sat at my desk with my laptop and done the thing I always did before entering a room that mattered — built the picture from the available materials. Not exhaustively. Enough. Eleanor Marsh, before she married Arthur Sterling in 1987. A year at the Slade School before she left to marry. Two children — a daughter who l