Chapter 4 Eleanor's POV
“Ellie Shaw.” Ollie’s voice curled around my name like smoke. “I was told another British national showed up, but I wasn’t informed it would be the one who got away.”
I forced a nervous smile, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear like a shy maid, flustered and harmless—but my pulse was a war drum. “Ollie. What are you doing here?” I pitched my voice in an airy, almost sultry tone, though it trembled at the edges. “Last I heard, you were working at a club in Mayfair as a bouncer.”
“Got boring,” he said with a shrug. “Too many upstanding brats with more money than sense.” He leaned against the counter beside me, his elbow brushing mine. The contact sent a jolt through me—I remembered that arm wrapped around my waist in some sticky-floored Camden pub, pulling me close as the world blurred into noise and warmth. “Heard the pay was better here and the view,” his eyes travelled slowly over me, “just improved substantially.”
I rolled my eyes, my genuine annoyance flaring through the act. “You haven’t changed.”
“Of course I have. I’m even more charming.” He leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial, close enough that his scent washed over me—soap, worn leather, and a deep, rich musk that clung to the air like a promise. I felt heat rise in my cheeks, my heart racing as I fought to keep my composure, acutely aware of the weight of his gaze. “Though the boss man is a right proper bstard. He gives me chills. Proper intense, ain’t he?”
“He is… focused,” I managed, my voice barely escaping my throat like a secret fight to be heard. I instinctively took a half-step back, hoping to shield myself from the intensity of his gaze."
“Focused.” He gave a dry laugh. “That’s one word for it.” His tone shifted—playfulness gone, replaced by something darker, sharper. “Right, some of the staff are heading into town on our next day off. Real pub. Good pint. Maybe axe-throwing. You’re coming.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an offering: one night without masks. One night where I could speak freely, laugh without calculation, be seen—not as Ellie the maid, but as the girl he once knew, the one who wasn’t afraid.
“I’d love to,” I said, lifting my eyes to his, letting him glimpse her—the real Eleanor. Fearless and confident.
“Great.” He grinned, sheepish, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s date night.”
The words hung in the air, thick with promise and peril.
Date.
For one dizzying minute, the estate vanished. Sterling, the mission, the ghosts—they all dissolved into mist. There was only Ollie, his warmth, his emerald eyes full of the future we never got. As Ollie's presence wrapped around me like the warmth of a forgotten memory, I felt the weight of my choices crash down. What was I doing? I had a mission, a purpose. But with every glance he stole, the girl I used to be crept back into my thoughts, whispering that it was okay to feel something again. Could I truly let myself play along in this dangerous game?
Knock, knock.
Sharp. Imperative.
Maria stood in the doorway, stone-faced, gaze slicing from Ollie to me. Ice flooded my veins.
“Eleanor,” she said, crisp as a blade. “Mr Sterling wants to see you. In his study. Now.”
The warmth evaporated. Fear locked my joints.
Ollie gave me the faintest nod, “steady, you’ve got this”—before straightening. “Ma’am,” he said to Maria, very polite, confident, utterly unreadable. Then he was gone.
The walk to the study felt like a march to the gallows. Persian rugs swallowed my steps. Had he seen us? Had a camera caught Ollie’s smile, my unguarded eyes? No. Think. Breathe. It’s probably nothing.
I reached the oak door. Wiped my sweaty palm on my grey skirt. Knocked—too soft, too weak.
“Enter.”
His voice—rough, coiled- slid through the wood.
I pushed the door open. It groaned like a warning. The room was all about control: bookshelves towering with leather-bound tomes, a dark wooden desk that was like a throne, leather armchairs that were scarred from countless meetings.
There was the scent of old paper, old bourbon, mingling with the cologne he liked, mint with cedar, which was always like a hug from a storm. There was a fire that cast warmth, though a chill of fear trickled down my spine as he drew near. Alexander stood at the window, back turned, silhouette sharp against the dying sun. A monument of menace.
“Close the door.”
I obeyed. The latch clicked like a coffin sealing.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I stood frozen, fists clenched, eyes fixed on the rug’s intricate pattern, fighting to steady my breath. The clock above the fireplace ticked steadily, each sound amplifying the silence between us, a reminder of the time slipping away.
Slowly, he turned.
His suit jacket was still on. Impeccable. Untouchable.
His grey eyes locked onto mine like a winter storm meeting open sea and pinned me in place. Not in my uniform or in my role, but at me. The truth beneath the facade.
He stepped forward. Silent and fluid, like a predator closing in.
Then he stopped inches away. Close enough to see silver flecks in his irises, enough to smell the quiet danger of his cologne and Close enough that Ollie’s warmth felt like a dream from another life.
“The phrase you used on the terrace,” he said, voice low like velvet wrapped around steel.
“Blunt instrument.”
The words hung, heavy as a verdict.
My arms crossed over my chest like a feeble shield.
He took one last step. Gestured to the chair. His eyes never left mine like he saw every secret, fear and heartbeat of mine.
“Care to elaborate?”