Chapter 23 Eleanor's POV
The ledger arrived just before dawn. Not with David, but with Beatrice Sterling herself.
The door to my room, my cell, my suite swung open, and there she stood. Calm. Regal. Dressed in a dove-grey gown, her white hair coiled like a crown. In her hands, she held a thick, leather-bound book, worn at the edges, its spine cracked with age. It looked like something from a museum—precious, dangerous, final.
She stepped inside without knocking. The guard shut the door behind her. Her gaze swept the room: padded walls, narrow bed, chessboard, me, curled under a blanket, exhausted from the night’s fear.
“Well, hello darling”, she said, her voice dry as autumn leaves, “you must be Alistair’s daughter. My goodness, Eleanor, btch, why?”
She set the book gently on the table. “I’ve been waiting to see whose ghost would appear in my hallway. Certainly not you, my beloved maid. To think we were both talking about tts getting sucked a while ago.”
She knew. Of course she did. She’d probably known from the start.
“You brought me here,” I said, voice rough. “You gave me the job.”
“You gave yourself a path,” she corrected, settling into the room’s single chair. “I merely opened the gate.” She nodded to the ledger. “My late husband’s folly. He called it ‘London Fog.’ A record of his failures, written in his own precise hand. He thought writing it down would contain the mess. All he did was give it reality.”
I stared at the book. Fourteen years of silence, of grief, of planning, answered in something that fit in two hands. My fingers went numb.
“Why?” I asked, the word raw. “Why let me in? Why hand me this?”
Her eyes held mine, sharp and steady. “Because my grandson is not his father. Alexander is a ruler, not a thug. But he’s drowning in the legacy of thuggery, and carrying a secret that could destroy him.” She leaned forward slightly. “You, Eleanor Shaw, have a very sharp edge, and your revenge, if well aimed, could cut the rot from the heart of this family.”
I stepped back. “You want me to destroy your family?”
“You’ll save it,” she said. “Through fire. Michael’s sins, Alexander’s truth, they’ll be the ballast. Your strength, your drive, they’re the only things that can forge something solid from this mess.” She smoothed her gown. “Read it. Then decide what kind of ghost you want to be.”
She left. The door clicked shut behind her.
I didn’t move for a long time. The air smelled of old paper, dust, and sorrow.
Finally, I stood. My legs trembled. I lifted the lid.
Inside lay the soul of Don Michael Sterling. Pages of neat, accountant-like script, curling slightly with age. Not a journal—this was colder. A ledger. A record of credits and debts paid in blood.
> Liquidation of asset “Cicero” – Chicago. Payment: $250k. Client: “Kingmaker.”
> Purchase of waterfront plot, Brooklyn. Facilitator: “The Senator.” Payment: Favour.
The clinical language was worse than rage. These weren’t crimes of passion. They were transactions—clean, quiet, and utterly inhuman.
My hands shook as I flipped to the London entries.
There it was.
Shorter than the rest:
> Elimination of liability “Professor” – London. Client: “Kingmaker.” Payment: Arms shipment (see invoice A-77). Contractor: “Ivanov.” Status: Complete.
Professor. My father.
Kingmaker. The faceless client.
Ivanov. Not Sterling muscle—a rival Bratva. Hired hands.
Niall was right. It was a setup. Professional and cold.
But then, a note in different ink, shakier script:
> Note: “Professor’s” research tied to “Kingmaker”/“Senator” cooperation. Project “Carthage.” A mistake.
A mistake.
My father’s murder—an overreaction, and Michael Sterling had realized it too late.
I sank into the chair, the ledger heavy in my lap. The vengeance that had driven me for fourteen years had no clear target. The man who gave the order was dead. The killer was likely long gone. The trail ended in shadows: Kingmaker. Carthage. Senator.
And Alec? He was just a boy then. An heir to sin, but not the sinner.
The door hissed open.
I didn’t look up.
Alec stepped in, dressed in dark clothes. He saw the open ledger. Saw my face. He didn’t speak. Just waited.
“It wasn’t you,” I whispered, the words strange on my tongue. “It was a transaction. Your father… he regretted it.”
“But I know what my father was,” Alec said quietly. “Regret doesn’t erase debt.” He stepped closer, eyes on the page. “Kingmaker. Senator. Carthage.”
“You know the Senator,” I said, finally meeting his gaze. My eyes were dry, hollow. “Charlotte’s father.”
“A political ally. Maybe a puppet.” His jaw tightened. “This is what you wanted. The truth. Now you have it. What will you do with it?”
I looked at the entry. The burning need for revenge had cooled, replaced by something colder, sharper. Not hatred for one man, but fury at the system that turned my father into a “liability” and his murder into a line item. These people, the Kingmakers, sat in boardrooms and gave orders like ordering coffee. They didn’t get their hands dirty. They just signed their names to death.
I closed the ledger with a soft thud.
“I want them,” I said, voice steady now. “Not you or your family. Them. The ones who give orders from clean offices. The ‘Kingmaker.’ The Senator. Everyone behind ‘Carthage.’ I want to burn their perfect, invisible world to the ground.”
Alec studied me, seeing not the grieving daughter, but the weapon I’d become.
A weapon pointed at the right enemies.
“Then we have a deal,” he said. He held out his hand, not to help me up, but to seal an alliance.
I stared at it, then at his face—the enemy, the protector, the king.
I took his hand. His grip was strong, warm. It anchored me to this new purpose.
“One condition,” I said, holding his gaze. “Ollie stays out of it. He goes somewhere safe. Far from here. Your word.”
A flicker crossed his face—annoyance, respect, resignation. He could’ve refused, but he didn’t. He knew Ollie was my one tether to a normal life, and he was letting me keep it.
“The Bronx detail is cancelled,” he said simply. “He’ll be transferred to London by week’s end. Under my protection. No one will connect him to you.”
Relief hit me like a wave, but I didn’t show it. “Good.”
He nodded. “Then we begin tomorrow. Charlotte’s gala is in three days. She’ll be there with the Senator. You’ll be at my side. Watching. Listening.”
I swallowed. “‘Carthage’?”
“We find the thread,” he said. “We pull it, and when their perfect world unravels, I want you to be the one who lights the match.”
I looked down at the ledger again. My father’s name. A mistake. A payment. A lie.
But now I had names. A plan and an ally.
The ghost wasn’t just haunting anymore.
She was ready to fight.
Alec turned to leave.
At the door, he paused. “You were never just a maid, Eleanor, and you were never just a prisoner.” He glanced back. “You were always the weapon and now… you’re mine.”
I didn’t correct him because in that moment, I knew the truth.
We weren’t just working together.
We were becoming something daring, passionate and irresistible.