Chapter 3 Eleanor's POV
I held the silver fork in my hand, but it felt less like cutlery and more like a blade.
I polished it with furious, rhythmic strokes, as if I could scour away the past hour along with the fingerprints.
A blunt instrument.
The phrase echoed in my skull like a drumbeat of self-reproach. Five years of discipline, of erasing Eleanor Shaw and stitching together “Ellie the Maid” stitch by stitch—only to unravel it all with three careless words.
I’d spent years fashioning a monster out of myself: cold, precise, invisible. The girl I’d once been—the one who laughed in rainstorms and believed in justice—was buried so deep she only surfaced in nightmares. And now? One glance from Alexander Sterling, one ill-timed quip, and the grave was cracking open.
The heavy oak doors to the staff corridor swung inward with a groan, snapping me back to the present.
Maria stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp enough to slice tempered glass. “The east wing suite, Eleanor. Ms Van Horn’s plane lands in three hours. It must be perfect. Spotless. Mr Sterling won’t tolerate less than absolute order… and sure perfection.”
She lingered on the last word, gaze raking over me as if she could smell doubt on my skin. As if my pulse, still racing from Alec’s stare, was written in sweat across my brow.
“Of course, Maria,” I murmured, head bowed, voice soft as dust. The perfect picture of submission.
But behind my lowered lashes, my mind was already dissecting Charlotte Van Horn: American aristocracy wrapped in designer silk, her family’s influence coiled through Congress like kudzu—beautiful, poisonous, and utterly entwined with Sterling’s empire. The thought of them together in that penthouse, negotiating futures over champagne… sent a shiver down my spine. Not fear. Something darker. Sharper. Anticipation.
I was halfway to the linen closet, muscles already bracing for the weight of those absurdly heavy Egyptian cotton sheets, when the front doorbell rang—deep, resonant, like a judge’s gavel.
Curiosity, that treacherous whisper, tugged me toward the narrow service peephole overlooking the grand hall, and then I saw him.
My breath caught—a soft, traitorous gasp in the silent corridor.
Ollie.
Oliver Reid stood in the marble foyer like a ghost from a life I’d incinerated. Broader now, shoulders filling out that black security uniform with a quiet, dangerous solidity.
His blond hair was still that careless mess I used to run my fingers through, and his smile—that easy, reckless grin—held the same promise of trouble and tenderness that once unravelled me completely.
“Oliver Reid, reporting for duty,” he announced, voice smooth as Thames water, London accent curling around every syllable. “Transferred from London HQ. Heard you could use a little real punch.”
My heart didn’t just pound—it recoiled, slamming against my ribs like a bird trying to escape a cage of its own making.
This wasn’t a coincidence. It was a catastrophe.
Ollie was a variable I hadn’t accounted for. A joker card slipped into a deck I thought I controlled. He knew me—really knew me, before the lies, the death certificates and forged passports. He’d held me through thunderstorms and hungover Sundays and in two months of London summer, we’d been stupidly, gloriously happy—lost in a sweaty, selfish bliss that felt like a lifetime ago.
And now he was here. In the lion’s den.
My mind raced: Had he been vetted? Did Sterling’s people know about us? Worse—did he know what I’d become?
Panic flared, hot and acidic. I turned and fled before he could glance up and find me watching.
For the next hour, as I smoothed pristine linen over the vast bed in the east wing, my thoughts warred within me. Was he a threat? A trap? Or… could he be an ally? The idea was seductive—and suicidal. Trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Later, hiding in the staff kitchen, I pushed a dry tuna sandwich around my plate, appetite long gone, memories of that summer in London flooded back—the laughter, the scent of his sandalwood cologne, and rain pattering against the window. Those days felt like a warm embrace, filled with carefree moments and whispered dreams.
But standing in the sterile east wing, a heavy dread settled on my shoulders, each pulse of the fluorescent lights mirroring my racing heart. How could I face Ollie, a ghost from the past I thought I had buried?
Then the door creaked open, and he appeared in the doorway, broad and commanding, his familiar grin disarming.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said, and in an instant, time felt like it thickened. Every instinct urged me to flee, to protect my secrets, but there was a dangerous comfort in his presence.
Ollie didn’t just see Ellie the Maid; he saw the girl I used to be—the one buried beneath layers of fear and lies. The urge to reach out battled with my terror of revealing the cracks in my facade.