Eleanor’s POV
The leather seats of Dickson’s car felt like they were swallowing whole. The scent of his expensive cologne, which I’d once found alluring, now made my stomach turn. He’d simply shown up at my apartnt this morning, declared I wasn’t going to work, and all but forced into the car. As a senior manager, his ti was his own. My ti, apparently, was also his own.
My hands were clenched into fists in my lap, the weight of the ring on my finger a cold, heavy brand. I stared out the window, watching the city blur into suburbs, then into the manicured landscapes that signaled the outskirts of the Moore family estate. A knot of dread tightened in my stomach with every mile.
Why? The question scread silently in my head. What business could they possibly have with now? I’d left. I’d given them exactly what they wanted—my absence. I was no longer an embarrassnt to their perfect na, no longer a shadow for their precious daughter, Priscilla, to be compared to. Wasn’t that her ultimate goal? To have them all to herself?
Dickson’s voice cut through my frantic thoughts. He was sitting too close in the back seat, his thigh pressing against mine. "You don’t have to worry, you know," he said, his tone patronizingly soft. "I won’t tell them about our engagent. It can be our little secret."
I didn’t reply. The words were stuck in my throat, choked by a mixture of fear and sheer disbelief. He was the source of all this worry. He was the one who had threatened , who had forced this ring onto my finger. And now he was pretending to be my protector.
He misread my silence, as he always did. He patted my knee, a gesture that felt like a claim. "I know you’re speechless. Happy, I bet. I’m bringing you back to your family. You’ll get the love you’ve been craving from them."
A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up inside , but I suppressed it, pressing my lips together. The love I’d always deserved? The love that consisted of backhanded complints, dismissive glances, and always, always being told to be more like Priscilla?
"And rember, darling," he continued, his voice taking on a chiding tone, "don’t be jealous of your sister. She’s not well. She’s the one who’s been asking for you to co ho. She misses you."
That finally broke through my numb silence. I turned my head to look out the window again, so he wouldn’t see the tears of frustration welling in my eyes.
Priscilla, missing ? That was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Every interaction with my sister was a calculated move in a ga I never learned how to play. Whatever her reason for wanting there, it wasn’t out of love or longing.
The car turned onto the long, familiar driveway. The Moore house lood ahead, a beautiful, cold monunt to everything I’d tried to escape.
I took a shaky breath, quietly steeling myself. I had to get through this. For Mira.
I had to play the part of the prodigal daughter returning, grateful and ek, while the man who held my life hostage sat beside , smiling like he’d just granted my greatest wish.
The car rolled to a stop on the pristine gravel driveway. Before he opened his door, Dickson leaned close, his voice a low, venomous whisper in my ear. "Rember, if you do anything... funny... you’ll regret it. Deeply." He punctuated the threat with a kiss on my ring-bearing hand, a possessive gesture that made my skin crawl.
I followed him out of the car, my legs feeling like lead. The grand front door of the Moore estate swung open before we even reached it.
The voice in my head, the one I’d been trying to ignore, roared to life.
Why do you allow this? You are a powerful being. Crush this pathetic insect.
I shut it down. It was just brain damage. A hallucination.
The head servant, Mrs. Cain stood there, her posture rigid. Her eyes, cold and assessing, swept over Dickson with deference before landing on . Her face instantly contorted into a familiar scowl.
"What is she doing here?" she spat, the words dripping with contempt. "The bastard isn’t welco in this house."
Dickson smoothly stepped in, his arm sliding around my waist in a false show of support. "Now, now, Mrs. Cain. No need for that. Eleanor here begged to co along. She’s had a change of heart, wants to see her sister and nd fences."
Mrs. Albright’s scowl deepened, but she stepped aside for Dickson, her disapproving gaze burning into as I followed him into the opulent, cold foyer I’d once called ho.
We were led into the living room. And there they were. My parents. Sitting on the sa silk divan, looking as perfectly composed and distant as they always had. Seeing them was a physical blow, unlocking a vault of mories I kept tightly sealed—of never being enough, of always being the disappointing afterthought.
They were laughing at sothing, the sound light and carefree, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside . Priscilla noticed us first. Her face lit up with a brilliant, practiced smile.
"Dickson!" she cooed, springing up from her chair with a fluid grace that seed to mock my own clumsiness.
She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a lingering kiss. Then she turned to , her expression morphing into one of saccharine delight.
"And Eleanor! I’m so happy you decided to co back and finally nd things with the family!" she exclaid, her voice a tinkling bell of false joy. She stepped forward and wrapped in a tight hug. To anyone else, it would have looked like a sisterly embrace.
But no one saw her hand snake around my back. No one felt her fingers find the sensitive skin just above my waist and pinch, hard and cruel, her nails digging in through the fabric of my shirt.
I gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound of pain that I quickly stifled, forcing my body to go rigid instead of pulling away.
Then, as suddenly as she had embraced , Priscilla leaped back with a dramatic cry, clutching her own arm. Her beautiful face was a mask of pained betrayal.
"Ow! Eleanor, why? Why would you pinch ? I was just hugging you! I was showing you love!" Her voice trembled, perfectly mimicking wounded innocence.
The effect was instantaneous. The room’s atmosphere turned to ice. My father’s face, purpled with rage. "You!" he bood, his voice shaking the crystal vases on the mantel. "You just walked through that door and you’re already causing trouble! So things never change!"
My mother rushed to Priscilla’s side, cradling her as if she’d been struck. She turned her disappointed eyes on , a look I knew all too well. "Eleanor, why? After all these years, why do you still harbor such hate for your sister for no reason? What has she ever done to you?"
They didn’t ask for my side. They didn’t even look at like I might have an explanation. The verdict was delivered the second Priscilla spoke.
The voice in my head was clear and livid. Leave this forsaken place. They are not worth your image. They are dust.
My image? What image? The question was a fleeting, confused thought in the storm of my humiliation.
Priscilla sniffled, laying it on thicker. "She’s probably still angry that I’m marrying Dickson. She’s always has a deep feelings of love for him. I guess she just couldn’t help herself."
That’s when Dickson stepped in, playing the role of the magnanimous peacemaker. "Now, now, everyone, let’s calm down. I’m sure Eleanor didn’t an it." He turned to , his eyes hard and warning, a stark contrast to his placating tone. "Right, Eleanor?"
The threat was clear.
I swallowed the lump of injustice in my throat, my gaze dropping to the floor. "I... I didn’t an it," I whispered. "I’m sorry."
The voice in my head seethed. I cannot stand this spectacle. This weakness.
Dickson gave a satisfied nod and led , like a chastised child, to a plush armchair. I sat down chanically, the weight of their collective disapproval pressing into the cushions. Everyone else slowly resud their seats, the tension in the room shifting from explosive anger to a heavy, uncomfortable silence.
The heavy silence was broken by Dickson’s smooth, placating voice. "Everyone, please, let’s all just... cut Eleanor so slack." He gave a magnanimous smile,. "She’s clearly remorseful. She’s proved that by coming here today, by agreeing to... well, to everything. We all know she wouldn’t let her... lingering feelings for ... ruin her sister’s happiness or well-being."
I stared at him, my mind reeling. What is he talking about? What have I agreed to?
My father nodded, his expression softening into sothing resembling approval, but it was directed at Dickson, not . "That’s good to hear. Very mature of her." He finally turned his gaze to , and it was colder, transactional. "And we will, of course, compensate you handsoly for your... contribution, Eleanor. After everything is said and done."
A cold dread began to creep up my spine. "Compensate for what?" I asked, my voice small and confused. "What are you all talking about?"
On cue, Priscilla let out a series of weak, pathetic coughs, leaning into our mother’s embrace. She lifted her head, her eyes wide with a feigned hurt. "Why are you asking like you don’t know?" she whined, her voice trembling. "Are you... are you trying to go back on your word now that you’re here?"
"What word?" The question was a desperate plea.
My mother sighed, a sound full of weary disappointnt. "Priscilla’s uncurable illness, Eleanor. It’s gotten worse. The doctors said she needs regular, compatible blood donations. And... a kidney transplant."
The world tilted. My father picked up the thread, his voice blunt and final. "You’re a match. We had you tested years ago, just in case. And Dickson assured us you were willing to do it. That you wanted to help your sister. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?"
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