London's dusk crept in early, spilling purple shadows across the old districts near Hampstead. The car that picked Eleanor up moved in silence, its interior dim, its leather seats too pristine to ever feel lived in. Outside the window, the world slid past a blur of brick walls, iron fences, and lampposts that glowed like watchful eyes.
Eleanor leaned back, expression unreadable.
Not tense.
Not anxious.
Just… waiting.
The man in the front seat said nothing. He didn't need to. His entire body language screamed discipline shoulders squared, chin stiff, posture locked with military restraint.
After thirty minutes, the car slowed.
They entered a gated estate concealed behind rows of towering yew trees. The lights were already on warm from afar, cold up close. The mansion stood tall, elegant in a way only old money could afford: stone pillars, dark oak windows, manicured paths that wound like secrets.
Eleanor stepped out. The air here felt different thicker, quieter, heavy with history that didn't welcome outsiders.
Except he wasn't an outsider.
Not really.
He had grown up inside these walls.
He just never belonged.
The front doors opened before he reached them. A man in his fifties stood
waiting silver streaks in his hair, posture immaculate, eyes sharp as if carved from winter itself.
"Eleanor."
His tone wasn't a greeting.
More like a reminder.
"Father."
Lord Alistair Vance didn't smile. He never did. He simply turned, expecting obedience. Eleanor followed, footsteps echoing through the marble foyer echoes he had memorized as a child, echoes that once terrified him before he learned to silence fear.
They entered a long hall illuminated by golden chandeliers. Portraits of Vance ancestors watched from the walls, their painted eyes heavy with judgment.
At the end of the hall sat a woman in a velvet chair, sipping tea with fingers too delicate for the life she lived.
Lady Marienne Vance.
His stepmother.
One of the sharpest smiles in London society.
"Eleanor," she purred. "It's been too long.
I was beginning to think you'd vanished."
"I'm here now," he said.
"So we see."
Her eyes flicked over him, assessing, calculating.
"And in quite an interesting moment, too."
Alistair gestured to the empty seat.
"Sit."
Eleanor did.
The tea tray between them steamed softly, the delicate scent of bergamot rising in the air. Marienne poured a cup for herself. Not for him. She never served him not even when he was a boy.
Alistair steepled his fingers.
"There are rumors."
Eleanor said nothing.
"That you've associated yourself with the Moreau family," his father continued. "And that your involvement is… personal."
"Professional," Eleanor corrected calmly.
"Don't insult me."
The man's voice hardened.
"I know a marriage contract when I hear one."
Marienne's smile widened.
"Isabella Moreau, of all people. My, my. The heiress who broke an engagement last winter and nearly tanked her family's shares with the scandal. Bold choice, Eleanor."
Her tone was honey over steel.
Eleanor didn't flinch.
"Whatever you've heard is irrelevant."
"Wrong."
Alistair leaned forward.
"Everything you do is relevant. The moment you sign anything with the Moreaus, it becomes political. Financial. Social. It concerns us."
Eleanor's jaw tensed.
He hated that word us.
"There is no 'us,' Father. Not in my decisions."
Alistair's cold eyes thinned.
"Then why are you here? Why did you get into our car if you no longer answer to this family?"
Ah.
There it was the real question.
Eleanor looked at him directly.
"Because you summoned me. And ignoring you creates problems I don't need right now."
Alistair sat back. A small victory flickered across his features.
"So you do understand your position."
"I understand yours," Eleanor said evenly. "You're worried the Moreaus will outmaneuver you if they think I'm aligned with them."
Marienne's laugh rang soft and elegant.
"He's grown sharp, Alistair. You should be proud."
But Alistair didn't smile.
He rarely acknowledged sharpness when he hadn't honed it himself.
"What do you want from me?" Eleanor asked.
Alistair stood, pacing once before stopping at the window. The garden lights illuminated the outline of trimmed hedges and cold statues.
"You will not embarrass this family," he said.
"I never have."
"You will not act on behalf of the Moreaus in any matter involving inheritance, shares, or political ties."
"I don't intend to."
"And,"his father's voice dipped lower
"you will keep your distance once this… arrangement ends."
Marienne tilted her head.
"How long is your contract, dear?"
Eleanor's silence was answer enough.
"Oh," she breathed.
"Longer than we expected."
Alistair turned sharply.
"Is this a power move, Eleanor? Did the Moreaus send you back to negotiate your place here? Did Isabella think she could use you to access this family's connections?"
"No," Eleanor replied calmly.
"She knows nothing about you."
"Does she know who you really are?" Marienne asked, swirling her tea.
"Does the poor girl know what family she's marrying into?"
"No," Eleanor said again. This time, softer.
Marienne smiled as if she could taste blood in the water.
"Secrets make very unstable marriages."
Eleanor met her gaze.
"I didn't ask for your concern."
"You're not getting concern, darling," she replied smoothly.
"You're getting a warning."
Alistair stepped away from the window.
"This arrangement will not last. It never does. Once it ends, you come back here. Quietly. Cleanly."
Eleanor rose from his seat.
"No," he said.
The room stilled.
"You don't get to decide that," Alistair said sharply.
Eleanor's expression didn't change calm, controlled, precise.
"I've followed your rules for years. That ends now."
Alistair's voice dropped, dangerous and low.
"You're still my son."
"By name," Eleanor replied.
"Not by choice."
Marienne inhaled sharply, the smile freezing.
Alistair stepped closer, face inches from his.
"You walk out that door," he said quietly, "and you are on your own."
Eleanor didn't blink.
"I've been on my own for a very long time."
He turned, coat brushing the edge of the chair, and walked toward the exit.
Marienne's voice followed him like a soft dagger:
"Eleanor… Isabella Moreau will not save you from who you are."
He paused.
His fingers curled once at his side.
Then he walked out without another word.
The night air hit him like a release cold, sharp, cleansing. He didn't look back at the house. He didn't need to. The shadows behind him felt like hands he'd spent a lifetime slipping out of.
He started walking down the gated path on foot. The sedan followed slowly, waiting for him to get in, but he didn't. The driver didn't insist.
He reached the end of the estate, passed the iron gate, and finally stopped beneath a streetlamp painting the ground in gold.
His phone buzzed.
A message.
From an unsaved number.
But he knew the cadence of those words already.
Isabella.
"Tomorrow. 8AM. We need to talk before we finalize the first announcement."
Another message followed, shorter.
"Don't be late."
For the first time in hours, the edge of his mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile just the ghost of one.
He typed back.
"I won't."
He slipped the phone away, lifted his face toward the cold London sky, and let out a slow breath.
Tomorrow, he would step into the Moreau world again.
Not as a pawn.
Not as a son running from his father's shadows.
But as a man preparing for a contract that might unravel everything he once believed stable.
Including himself.
And especially Isabella.