London had not yet shaken off its morning chill when Eleanor stepped out of the town car, the wind clawing at his coat as if determined to pull him back into the shadows he had just escaped. The Moreau penthouse towered above him
a blade of glass spearing the sky, cold and beautiful in its indifference. He inhaled once, steady and sharp, before pushing through the marble-lined lobby and into the private elevator.
The doors slid shut with a soft hiss.
Silence wrapped itself around him.
A dangerous silence, the kind that made a man hear the thoughts he tried to run from. He had been avoiding them since last night since the Vance estate, since his father's voice like a serrated edge tearing open an old wound.
You think she won't destroy you again? You are repeating your mother's mistake.
He shut his eyes.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
Isabella was waiting.
The elevator chimed and opened directly into the living area of her penthouse, warm light spilling against polished floors and floor-to-ceiling windows where the Thames moved like a sheet of liquid steel. Isabella stood near the glass, one hand resting against her arm as though deep in thought.
She didn't turn when he entered.
"You're late," she said.
"I didn't realize we had a set time."
"You didn't. But I assumed you wouldn't make me wait."
He raised a brow. "You assume too much."
"And you assume too little."
She turned then, slowly, like unveiling a new expression she had crafted precisely for this moment. Her face carried the cool composure she wore like armor, but beneath it something else. A tension. A question. A storm she refused to show him fully.
He stepped further into the room.
"We need to talk," he said.
"That's unfortunate," she replied, "because I was hoping we wouldn't."
His jaw tightened. "Isabella."
"Eleanor."
Silence.
The kind that could break or bind.
Finally, she exhaled and walked to the table, where scattered documents lay press releases, mock announcements, potential interview outlines. Their engagement was scheduled to go live in less than twenty four hours. Every word they said today, every breath, every hesitation, would shape how the world saw them tomorrow.
But that wasn't what bothered him.
Not truly.
Isabella sat, posture perfect, gaze too calm.
"Your father called again," she said. "This morning."
His stomach dropped. "What did he say?"
"Nothing I haven't already heard." Her eyes were still, unreadable. "He warned me."
Of course he did. Alistair Vance never attacked directly not when poisoning from a distance was more efficient.
"What did he warn you about?" Eleanor asked.
She tapped the table once, her nail striking the wood like a tiny dagger.
"You," she said softly. "He warned me about you."
A beat of silence.
"…and did you listen?" Eleanor asked.
"No." Her voice tightened. "But I didn't ignore him either."
He looked away, jaw working.
That was his father's power. Not in wealth, not in influence, but in the way he infected people with doubt. Even Isabella, who trusted almost nothing, was not immune.
She folded her arms.
"I want to know what happened last night," she said. "The truth this time."
He hesitated.
Not because he wanted to lie, but because the truth was something he had spent years avoiding even inside his own mind.
"I went to the Vance estate because my father demanded it."
"And you obeyed."
"No." He stepped closer. "I confronted him. I told him I was marrying you."
Isabella blinked.
"Did he congratulate you?" she asked dryly.
"He was furious."
"Good. At least he's predictable."
Eleanor leaned back against the table, hands gripping the edge.
"He said you would ruin me." His voice lowered. "That you would do to me what your family did to my mother."
Her expression flickered pain, guilt, and something sharp and defensive.
"My family," she said quietly, "is guilty of many things. But not that."
"I know."
She looked up, surprised.
"You… believe me?"
Eleanor didn't answer immediately. He walked to the window, the stretch of London glowing under the thin winter sun. Cars crawled across bridges. The river moved with slow purpose. Somewhere out there, reporters were preparing their headlines. Somewhere out there, everything was shifting beneath their feet.
Finally, he spoke.
"I don't trust easily," he said. "But I trust what I saw in your eyes last night."
"What did you see?"
"Truth."
She held his gaze, and for once, she didn't look away first.
He returned to the table. "But there's something we need to address."
Her shoulders stiffened. "What is it?"
"Us."
Isabella blinked. The word seemed to unsettle her more than accusations or threats ever had.
"We are not" she began.
"No," he cut in, "we are not anything. Not yet. But the public announcement changes everything. We need a plan."
"I agree. What kind of plan?"
"One that protects us from my father," he said. "One that protects you from yours."
"And what protects us from ourselves?"
He paused.
That… he did not have an answer for.
She leaned back in her chair, gaze piercing.
"Eleanor," she said quietly, "this isn't just a contract anymore. The moment your father got involved, the stakes changed."
"I know."
"He will try to manipulate you. He will try to use me. And if we give him even a crack in this arrangement, he will tear us apart."
"I said I know." His tone sharpened.
"Then prove it."
"By doing what?"
Her eyes softened barely, but unmistakably.
"By standing with me," she whispered. "Not just on paper. Not just in public. But here."
Eleanor's breath stilled.
It was the closest she had ever come to asking for something.
The closest she had ever come to needing him.
He moved to her side of the table, his shadow falling over her. She looked up, unwavering, even as something fragile flickered behind her expression.
"Isabella," he said, voice low, "I will stand with you."
She blinked once, slow, like absorbing the words.
"But we need rules," he added. "Clear ones."
"Then make them."
He nodded.
"Rule one," he said. "No secrets."
Her lips curled faintly not a smile, but the ghost of one.
"Hypocritical, but fine. Rule two?"
"Rule two," he said, "if either family tries to pull us apart we tell each other immediately."
Her jaw tightened. "Agreed."
"And rule three," Eleanor continued.
He hesitated.
She lifted a brow. "Go on."
"Rule three… we don't pretend with each other."
Isabella froze.
The room stilled with her.
"Pretend?" she echoed.
"Yes," he said. "We can lie to the press. We can lie to society. But not to each other."
She stood then, slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his.
"Eleanor," she whispered, "you're asking for honesty in a marriage built on deception."
"No," he corrected, stepping closer. "I'm asking for honesty between two people trying to survive it."
Her breath hitched.
Just barely but he caught it.
"You want the truth?" Isabella said, her voice trembling under its steel. "Here is the truth: I am terrified of this marriage."
He stilled.
"And I am terrified," she continued, "of you."
The admission struck the air like lightning.
Isabella Moreau—untouchable, unbreakable terrified?
He softened, instinctively.
"Why?"
Her throat moved.
"Because you are the only person," she whispered, "who could destroy me again."
Silence swallowed them whole.
Eleanor stepped closer, one slow pace, then another, until he stood inches from her. Her pulse throbbed visibly at her throat.
He lifted a hand but didn't touch her.
Not yet.
"You're wrong," he said.
She swallowed. "About what?"
"You think I'm the danger." His voice dropped. "But it's you, Isabella. You're the one I can't control. You're the one who terrifies me."
Her eyes widened, breath shattering softly in her chest.
For a moment too brief, too potent the world narrowed to them alone. The city fell away. The tension between them thickened, heavy with truth they had never dared to speak.
Then Isabella blinked, pulling herself back from the edge.
"We should prepare for the interview," she said, stepping away.
Eleanor exhaled, slow, steady, controlled.
"Yes," he murmured. "We should."
She walked toward the study, her footsteps measured, but her voice trembled when she spoke again.
"Tomorrow the world believes our lie, Eleanor."
"And today?"
She paused at the doorway.
"Today," she whispered, "we confront the truths we've been running from."
She disappeared inside.
Eleanor remained standing alone for a moment, breath uneven, pulse louder than it should be.
Unspoken truths were the heaviest kind.
But today they had finally begun to speak them.