Chapter3

Eleanor's POV

Three days ago.

I was still in bed recovering from the surgery when my phone lit up with a message, the edges of my vision still a little blurry. I didn't pay it much attention. Then Diana called a moment later. She started crying before she even finished her first sentence—that sharp, rapid cry she used when she needed something.

"The West family has been chosen to unite with the Sterling family. The arrangement was originally for Isabella. But she heard things about Alexander—something about a genetic condition, and that he's mentally unstable—so she refuses to marry him. She's gone, Eleanor. She packed her bags and left, and we can't find her."

I said no. No hesitation, no second thought. I told her I wasn't going to marry a stranger just because Isabella was too afraid to honor a promise she'd already made. Diana kept crying. She said the family's finances had collapsed—real estate projects stalled, cash flow dried up, debts piling up. She said the Sterlings were the only way out.

"Isabella is too young. She can't bear the weight of marrying a man who could fall apart at any moment. But you're different—you've already been through so much. You can handle it."

"Handle it." The word sat like a stone in my chest. Handle what? Being thrown into a stranger's life because my sister ran? Traded like a backup asset because I'd already proven I could survive being broken?

I'd spent two years swallowing things I shouldn't have had to swallow—silences, lies, the slow erosion of always being the one who understood. And now my own mother was telling me that was my qualification. That my damage was my value.

I didn't let her finish. I hung up.

But now, I needed this chance.

I got to my feet and decided to go to a nearby pharmacy first to take care of the wound.

The pharmacy was open, not many people inside, the fluorescent lights harsh and bright. I stood at the counter and bought antiseptic, gauze, and medical tape, never meeting the cashier's eyes. After I walked out, I sat on a narrow bench near the entrance and treated my hand under the cold white light—picking out the last bits of glass, pressing a folded piece of gauze against the wound until the bleeding stopped.

It wasn't deep. It just wouldn't stop.

Sitting on the bench now, I stared at my bandaged palm, feeling nothing in particular—a little grief, a little anger, and beneath it all, a hollow that wouldn't fill. All those years of trying to get out, and here I was—right back where they wanted me.

I finished bandaging my hand, pulling the tape tight with my teeth, and looked at my reflection in the pharmacy window. Pale face, dark coat, bandaged palm. I barely recognized myself.

I unlocked my phone.

Diana's message from three days ago was still there, at the top of the thread. I read it once, then typed four words and hit send: I'll do it. I'm in.

A reply came in less than two minutes. The phone rang right after.

"Eleanor." Diana's voice had changed—still urgent, but brighter now. "When can you come home? I'll send everything—Isabella's files, her chart, the Sterling family background. You have to go through it all before you arrive. And listen, no one can know you're not Isabella. No one. You have to—"

"I'll be there in three days," I said. "I have things to wrap up here."

She started to say something else—it sounded like it might have been are you okay or I'm sorry—but I didn't want to hear it. "I'll call you when I land," I said, and hung up.

I sat there a moment longer, looking at the pharmacy window again. The woman in the glass didn't look like someone who'd just made a life-altering decision. She looked like someone waiting for a bus.

I'm going to live as someone else. The thought landed quietly, without a ripple. That was fine. Only people with something left to protect made ripples.

I opened Julian's chat next. Two years of messages—good-morning texts, dinner photos, bad jokes, the occasional voice memo from one of us too tired to type. All of it arranged neatly in a little scroll, time-stamped, archived, meaningless. I typed quickly: We're done. Don't contact me again. Send. Then I blocked his number, his email, every account I could think of. The whole thing took less than a minute.

I called a cab and gave the driver my address.

The taxi dropped me off in front of my building. I paid, stepped onto the hallway with the small bag of supplies in my good hand—and then I saw him.

Julian was standing by the doorway, leaning against the wall, hands in his jacket pockets. He'd been waiting. Of course he had.

He looked up at the sound of my footsteps, his expression shifting to something careful and soft—the face he put on when he wanted to seem reasonable.

"Your hand," he said, nodding at the bandage. "Did you get it looked at? I've been thinking about tonight. Things got out of hand. We should talk. I have time now—we could find somewhere quiet for dinner."

I stopped a few feet away from him. "We broke up," I said. "I texted you."

"Eleanor." My name, in that voice he used whenever he thought I was being unreasonable—patient, with a faint edge of weariness. "What happened with Veronica tonight—it wasn't what you think. She's an old friend. We've known each other for years. The things you heard—that's just how she is. She's a little offbeat, I know it doesn't look good, but if you'd just let me explain—"

I wasn't angry. That surprised me a little. I'd expected a surge of something strong when I saw him again, but there was nothing—just a calm, clear stillness.

"There's nothing to explain," I said. "I'm going back. To get married."

Julian went still.

He stared at me for a second, that careful, confident look on his face wiped clean, replaced by something I'd never seen on him before. Something almost like panic.

"Married," he repeated, like he hadn't understood. "To who? Eleanor, what are you talking about?"