Chapter 9 Eleanor’s fists clenched beneath the table, nails biting her palms. Before she could retort, nausea surged, a violent wave. She bolted to the restroom, retching over the sink, her body trembling.
Riley’s voice trailed her, sharp with suspicion. “Eleanor, are you pregnant?”
Eleanor’s stomach churned, then stilled, the nausea retreating like a tide pulling back from shore. She rinsed her mouth with methodical precision, the cool water a fleeting balm, and dabbed her lips with a tissue, piecing herself together under Riley’s hawkish stare. “I just left prison,” she said, her voice flat as slate. “How could that even be possible?”
The tension melted from Riley’s frame, her shoulders easing as a smirk flickered. She believed it—Logan’s disdain for children was a bedrock truth she’d long accepted. Since girlhood, she’d known a life with him meant no heirs, a pact she embraced. She loathed the thought of children anyway, their chaos a threat to the sculpted perfection she wielded to hold his gaze. Pregnancy would only fracture her mirror-smooth allure.
Riley straightened, her tone dripping with patronizing silk. “Eleanor, don’t despair if Logan’s cold to you. Once I’m healed, he’ll cast you off without a second thought. We’ll be generous, though. Next time you bleed for me, I’ll toss in an extra handbag—how’s that?” Her smile was a thin veneer over mockery.
“I’ve never touched your bags,” Eleanor replied, tossing the tissue aside as she turned to leave. “Keep them.” Riley’s taunts stung, but the ache of her jobless state cut deeper, a wound festering with each step. Grayson had slipped her Clara’s meager legacy—a scant hundred thousand dollars—barely a lifeline for the child she carried. She needed income, fast, a tether to secure their future.
With doors slamming shut on her medical past, she chased roles blind to her record. Her nursing certification, a relic of brighter days, landed her a part-time caregiving gig that afternoon at a local hospital. As she stepped out, Logan’s call buzzed through, a jolt she’d failed to preempt—his number still unblocked from the night before. She answered, wary. “What?”
His voice sliced through, icy and sharp. “Did you see Riley today?”
“Yes,” she said, bracing herself.
The chill in his tone deepened, a frostbitten edge. “Eleanor, can’t you go a day without troubling her?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her grip tightening.
“Riley offered you a job out of kindness, and you threw it back, accusing her of deceit. Is that true?” His words were a gavel, heavy with judgment.
Her fingers blanched around the phone, knuckles whitening. “Yes, but I spoke the truth.”
“You think you’re blameless?” Logan’s voice hardened, unrelenting. “I stayed with you last night instead of Riley, explained this morning that nothing happened between us. And still, you hunted her down!”
A bitter smile ghosted her lips, brittle and fleeting. His “kindness”—dragging her home, the video—hadn’t been for her. It was all to shield Riley, not to mend their rift. She’d been a fool to see tenderness in it, to think she merited even a scrap of his warmth. “Logan,” she said, her voice hollow as an empty well, “does ‘something’ only count if you bed her?”
“Stop twisting my words!” His fury erupted, a thunderclap through the line. “Must you wield your prison scars like weapons? Riley’s been sobbing all day because of you—nearly relapsed!”
Tears broke free, streaming hot down her cheeks, carving paths through her resolve. Prison had branded her, yes—stripped a star graduate to a shadow barred from her calling. Riley’s barbs she could endure, but Logan’s accusations shattered her, each one a dagger from the man she’d loved most. “Nothing to say?” he snapped, her silence stoking his rage. “Go to the Dawson house and apologize to Riley—now!”
She swiped at her tears, a rough gesture, and drew a shuddering breath. “If she loves crying that much, I won’t stop her.” Her real apology was to herself—for loving him, for clinging to a ghost. She ended the call, blocked his number, and sealed the wound. No more would he pierce her. Divorce was her only path.
At the Dawson residence, Logan glared at his phone, fury simmering like a storm on the horizon. He dialed again—blocked. A cold, barking laugh escaped him. “Eleanor, you’ve got guts…”
“Logan, don’t be mad,” Riley murmured, wheeling closer, her eyes shimmering with crocodile tears. “It’s my fault. I tried to help, and it backfired. She’s right to hate me—if not for me, she’d never have seen prison…” She studied him, her voice a soft thread of manipulation. “If I’d been kinder, not pressed charges, maybe she wouldn’t despise me now…”
Logan’s gaze lingered on his phone, his tone detached. “Choices have costs. This isn’t on you.” His words were a shrug, unburdened by her guilt.
A flicker of triumph danced across Riley’s delicate face, masked by empathy. “Eleanor loves fine bags. I’ll hit the mall tomorrow, pick the latest design. Maybe it’ll soothe her.” Her suggestion was a calculated olive branch.
“Buy what you like. Use my card,” Logan said, his voice flat.
“Okay,” she replied, her smile demure.
“I’ve got things to handle. I’m off,” he said, rising.
“Drive safe, and eat on time,” she called, concern lacing her tone.
“Fine,” he muttered, striding out.
The car’s silence pressed heavy, a shroud over the driver. Without a cue, he ventured, “Mr. Barrett, where to?”
“Phone,” Logan’s voice rasped, cold as winter stone. “Now.”
The driver fumbled, unlocking it and handing it over. Logan dialed Eleanor—blocked again. He massaged his temples, frustration pulsing. “Barrett Group,” he ordered, his tone clipped.
“Sir,” the driver hesitated, “didn’t you get a gift for Mrs. Barrett? Weren’t you going to her?”
A luxury bag sat beside Logan, a forgotten token. If not for Riley’s tearful summons, he’d have delivered it. His gaze hardened. “She’ll get it when she owns her errors.”
Morning broke crisp as Eleanor arrived for her first shift, punctual to the second. Her medical roots and caregiving past wove her effortlessly into the nursing team. At lunch, a nurse eyed her, curiosity alight. “Eleanor, you’re young, stunning. Why caregiving? It’s usually older folks here—rare to see someone like you.”
She smiled faintly, a curve without warmth. “It pays well.” Five hundred a day, weekly cash—a lifeline she could clutch.
“Money troubles, then,” the nurse murmured, voice dropping. “You’re steady, patient. Ever thought of the VIP ward?”
“VIP ward?” Eleanor’s brow lifted.
“Yeah,” the nurse said. “Rich patients, big pay—several times more. Do well, and tips roll in.”
Her pulse quickened. “How much more?”
“Take VIP room 15,” the nurse replied. “Two thousand a day.”
The number thrummed in her chest—sixty thousand a month. A few months could bankroll her delivery, a cushion for her child. “I want in,” she said, no pause.
“But,” the nurse cautioned, “that patient’s a terror—five caregivers sacked in a day. Tough ones last three, max.”
Eleanor stilled, then nodded. “I still want to try.” Need trumped fear—nothing felt too steep now.
With a referral, she clinched the VIP spot, assigned to room 15—the jackpot case. At the nurses’ station, she stared at the thick sheaf of care notes. “This is… a lot.”
A nurse smacked her forehead, adding more pages. “Almost forgot these!”
Eleanor gaped at the towering stack, words failing her. As she hauled it away, the nurses wagered in whispers.
“One day, tops!”
“She’s young—half a day.”
“An hour, I bet!”
