Chapter4

Eleanor's POV

I didn't answer him. I stepped past Julian and unlocked the door, feeling his stare on my back the entire time. The lock gave, and I pushed the door open without looking back.

"Eleanor, wait—" His voice rose, sharp now, cutting through the quiet street. "You can't just—who are you marrying? What the hell are you talking about?"

I didn't turn around. I stepped inside, and the door swung shut between us with a dull thud. For a second, there was silence. Then came the pounding.

"Eleanor! Open the door!" His fist hit the wood again. "You can't just walk away like this! We need to talk!"

I stood there for a moment, back pressed against the door, listening to the muffled sound of his voice bleeding through. He kept calling my name, over and over, his tone shifting from anger to something that almost sounded like pleading. I waited until the noise faded, until I heard hallway retreating down, and then I moved.

After he left, I set the pharmacy bag on the counter and started packing. I didn't have much—a few changes of clothes, my laptop, a small leather case with my design tools. I worked methodically, folding each item and placing it in my suitcase, my bandaged hand clumsy but functional.

When I passed the bookshelf, I stopped. There was a framed photo of us from last year—Julian and me at some rooftop event, both smiling. I picked it up, looked at it for a second, then dropped it into the trash can by the door.

I moved through the apartment like I was cataloging evidence. His jacket on the back of the chair. The coffee mug he'd left on the counter two weeks ago. A set of cufflinks he'd asked me to hold onto. I gathered it all—every piece of him I could find—and threw it in the trash.

The ring went last. It made a sharp, clear sound when it hit the bottom of the bin, like the snap of a lock closing.

By the time I finished, the apartment looked stripped. Empty. It felt right.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing. A delivery notification. I went downstairs to sign for the package—a large cardboard box with my mother's return address printed neatly on the label. I carried it back upstairs and set it on the table, staring at it for a moment before opening it.

Two years, I thought. This is the first thing she's sent me in two years.

Inside was everything I needed to become someone else. Isabella's passport, her driver's license, a stack of documents with her name on them. A thick file labeled Isabella West: Personal Profile—her habits, her friends, her favorite restaurants, the way she signed her name.

There was a separate folder on the Sterling family: business holdings, family tree, a series of photos. Alexander Sterling's face stared up at me from one of them, all sharp lines and cold eyes. Beneath the photo, someone had written in red ink: Genetic neurological condition. Mentally unstable. Proceed with caution.

At the bottom of the box was a handwritten note from Diana.

*Remember—you are Isabella now. Any mistake could ruin everything.

I sat down and started reading. Isabella's life unfolded in bullet points and annotations—socialite, impulsive, obsessed with luxury brands, never involved in family business. She was nothing like me. That was probably the point.

I held up her passport and looked at the photo, then at my reflection in the window. I'd have to learn how to move like her. Talk like her. Be her.

I opened my laptop and booked a flight under her name. The moment I typed "Isabella West" into the form, something shifted. It felt like watching myself dissolve, pixel by pixel, replaced by someone else entirely.

The next afternoon, I stood in front of my building with my suitcase in hand, ready to leave. The sun was out, bright and indifferent, and for a second I just stood there, feeling the weight of the choice I'd made settle over me like a coat I couldn't take off.

Then I saw him.

Carlisle Sullivan was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with that sharp, assessing look he always had. He was older than me by almost five years, successful, the kind of guy who'd built his own company from the ground up and made it look easy.

We'd kept in touch since college—mostly professional, but he'd always been kind to me. More than kind, if I was being honest.

"Eleanor," he said, straightening up. His eyes flicked to my suitcase, then back to my face. "I was hoping I'd catch you."

I stopped. "Carlisle. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk." He hesitated, then said, "I heard some things this morning. About Julian. People are saying he's been seen around town with someone—Veronica Lane. I know you two are together, so I thought..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the bandage on my hand. His expression hardened. "What happened?"

"Nothing that matters anymore," I said. "We broke up."

His face changed instantly—relief, maybe even satisfaction. "Good. He never deserved you, Eleanor. I've been saying that for years." He took a step closer. "Look, if you're leaving town because of him, don't. Stay. Come work for me. You're wasted on that guy's half-assed projects. I can give you real resources, real support—"

"I'm not leaving because of Julian," I said, cutting him off. "I'm going home."

Carlisle paused. He studied me for a moment, then said, "Alright. Want me to help you take him down?"

I raised an eyebrow."What are you planning to do?

"He used my partnership to build credibility with three other investors. Did you know that? He dropped your name to get the introduction, then dropped mine to close the deal." Carlisle's voice was even, but his jaw was tight. "I've been sitting on that for a while. I think it's time I did something about it."

I looked at him. "What exactly are you planning?"

He smiled—the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's my business. But let's just say he's been leveraging relationships he has no right to leverage, and some people are going to find out." He paused. "I thought you should know, in case you hear something in the next few weeks and wonder where it came from."

"Carlisle—"

"You recommended me to him," he said simply. "That means whatever he did with that introduction reflects on you too. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because it's the right call." He tilted his head slightly. "But I won't pretend I mind that it'll hurt him."

I almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was the first thing in two days that had felt even remotely satisfying. "What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. You're leaving anyway." He nodded at my suitcase. "You'll hear about it eventually. Consider it a parting gift."