Chapter 87
Derek POV
Hours later, I was in London, watching morning rain streak across the windows of my penthouse apartment overlooking the Thames. I'd arranged the flight during dinner, calling in favors to secure the company jet on short notice. Alan had been baffled but efficient, rescheduling meetings and preparing the necessary documents for my "emergency trip."
I spent the morning handling emails and video calls, maintaining the pretense that this was indeed a crucial business trip. By afternoon, I found myself in a quiet residential neighborhood in Notting Hill, standing outside a Victorian townhouse with a bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch.
Michael opened the door with a baby monitor in one hand and dark circles under his eyes. He grinned when he saw me, the exhaustion momentarily lifting from his face.
"Derek Wells, as I live and breathe," he said, pulling me into a one-armed hug. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
Michael and I had worked together during my first year in London, before he left finance to start his own consulting firm. We'd stayed in touch, though our meetings had grown less frequent as our lives diverged.
"Can't a man visit an old friend without an interrogation?" I followed him into a living room scattered with baby toys and financial journals.
"When that man is you, and the visit is unannounced? No." Michael cleared a space on the sofa. "Drink?"
I held up the bottle I'd brought. "I came prepared."
Michael laughed. "Thank God. Parenthood requires alcohol of precisely this quality."
As if on cue, a cry emerged from the baby monitor. Michael sighed and handed me the device. "Duty calls. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back once I've convinced my daughter that sleep is not, in fact, her mortal enemy."
Left alone, I wandered the room, taking in the evidence of Michael's new life. Photos lined the mantelpiece—Michael and his wife on their wedding day, the two of them in a hospital room holding tiny bundles, and more recent ones of twin girls with his dark hair and his wife's smile.
Michael returned fifteen minutes later, looking triumphant. "Victory, though likely short-lived. She'll be up again in an hour, but for now, we drink."
He poured two generous glasses of Scotch, and we settled into comfortable chairs.
"So," he said after his first sip, "what brings you across the Atlantic without warning? Business crisis? Running from the law? Heartbreak?"
I gave him a thin smile. "Can't it be all three?"
We talked about his consulting work and my expansion plans for Frontier Capital, carefully avoiding personal topics until the Scotch had done its work.
"How are Emma and the twins?" I asked eventually.
Michael's face softened in a way I'd never seen before. "Exhausting. Terrifying. Absolutely miraculous." He pulled out his phone, scrolling through photos. "Lily has colic, and Lisa is determined never to sleep more than two hours at a stretch. Emma and I haven't had a full night's sleep in months."
"Sounds hellish," I said.
"It is." He smiled, the pride evident in his eyes. "Best hell I've ever been in."
Later, after another drink, Michael carried a fussing girl into the living room. I watched as he cradled her with practiced ease, his large hands gentle as they supported her tiny head.
"Want to hold her?" he offered.
Before I could refuse, he was placing the small, warm bundle in my arms. I tensed, afraid I might break her somehow, but Michael adjusted my grip with a chuckle.
"She won't shatter, Derek. Just support her head. There you go."
The baby blinked up at me with solemn dark eyes, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling against my suit jacket. Something unfamiliar stirred in my chest.
"I read to them every night," Michael said, watching us. "The same stories my father read to me. They're too young to understand, of course, but they seem to like the sound of my voice."
I nodded, still looking at the baby girl. Unbidden, an image formed in my mind: Eleanor sitting in a rocking chair, a baby in her arms, her voice soft as she sang a lullaby. I imagined a nursery painted in pale yellow, stuffed animals lined up on shelves, a mobile hanging above a crib.
The vision expanded. A little girl with Eleanor's green eyes and my stubborn chin, learning to ride a bicycle in the park. A boy with her artistic talent and my head for numbers, proudly showing off his first business plan. Family dinners around a large table, Christmas mornings with presents stacked under a tree, Eleanor selecting their first formal outfits for a Wells family event.
The intensity of these unbidden thoughts caught me off guard. I'd never envisioned myself as a father, had never wanted the entanglements of a traditional family. Yet here I was, holding my friend's daughter and imagining a life I'd never considered possible.
"Derek?" Michael's voice broke through my reverie. "You went somewhere else for a minute there."
I carefully handed his daughter back to him. "Just thinking about work," I lied, reaching for my glass.
---
After leaving Michael's, I returned to my apartment and poured another drink, still unsettled by the domestic visions that had ambushed me. I pulled out my phone and dialed Eleanor's number before I could think better of it.
She answered on the fourth ring. In the background, I heard music and laughter—not the quiet of her Victorian home or the ambient noise of her flower shop.
"Derek," she said, her voice raised to be heard over the noise. "Is something wrong?"
"Where are you?" I asked, ignoring her question.
"At a party Olivia organized for some artist friends." More laughter in the background, a man's voice saying something I couldn't quite catch. Then I heard it clearly—James saying Eleanor's name, his tone warm and familiar.
My grip tightened on the phone. "You sound busy.Enjoy your time with your... friends."
"Derek—"
"Goodnight, Eleanor." I ended the call, tossing the phone onto the sofa.
I stood at the window, looking out at London's nightscape, my reflection ghostly in the glass. James. Of course she was with James. While I was across an ocean, imagining a future with her, she was moving on, just as she'd planned to do all along.
But I couldn't shake the memory of her response on that mountain. The way she'd kissed me back, with a fervor that matched my own. That couldn't have been feigned. I knew Eleanor—knew her body, her reactions. She'd wanted me as much as I'd wanted her.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, my breath fogging the pane. I'd spent three years keeping her at a distance, and now that I finally understood what I felt for her, it might be too late.
One thing was certain: I wasn't going to lose her without a fight. Not to James, not to anyone. Eleanor Wells was mine, and it was time I stopped denying it—to her, and to myself.