Chapter5

Eleanor's POV

I landed at Heathrow to a gray, bone-cold sky. The damp air had already seeped through my coat before I'd even cleared the terminal. I pulled my suitcase through the arrivals hall, past strangers holding signs and rushing into each other's arms, and reminded myself: this was what I'd asked for. No pickup. No escort. No one standing there with a sign that said Isabella West.

I needed a few hours that were completely mine. Just me.

I stood at the taxi queue and pulled out my phone, scrolling to my brother Oliver's contact. His profile photo was the one I'd taken two years ago—him in his football kit, mid-laugh, making a face at the camera. I hit call. It rang six times and went to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message.

Training, I told myself, and got in the next cab.

I gave the driver a central London address and watched the city slide past the window. Everything was unfamiliar—the road signs, the architecture, the way the light fell flat and pale through the cloud cover. In San Francisco, the sky had been blue when I left. Here it pressed down low, like it had something to say.

From this moment, you're Isabella.

My phone buzzed twenty minutes in. Oliver.

I picked up before the second ring.

"Hey." His voice was off—too controlled, like he was actively keeping it level. One word and I already knew.

"Where are you?" I asked.

A beat. "St. Margaret's. A&E."

"What happened?"

"Just... twisted my ankle. Might be a bit bad." Another pause. "Mum's not around. I need someone to sign some paperwork, sort the insurance. Are you—can you come?"

I was already knocking on the partition. "Driver, can we change the destination?"

I didn't ask how. I didn't ask why. I just redirected.

After I hung up, his messages came through in a cluster—you almost here, waiting area B2, can you bring food. That last one almost made me smile. Hurt, and still thinking about sandwiches.

I had the driver stop at a convenience store. Two sandwiches, a sports drink. Back in the cab, I watched the streets narrow as we got closer to the hospital.

He was exactly where he'd said—slouched against the wall in B2, school uniform, left ankle in a temporary brace, a faint scrape across his forehead. When he saw me, he straightened up fast, like he hadn't been waiting. Like he was fine.

I sat down and put the food in his hands. "Tell me."

He took a bite of the sandwich first. Then he told me.

School league match. His team won, beat Grayson Academy. After the final whistle, one of their players walked past him and put a shoulder into him—hard, deliberate, angled. Oliver hadn't seen it coming. His foot caught the edge of the pitch steps, ankle rolled, and he hit the advertising board on his way down. Scraped his head.

"Their parents showed up," he said. "Stood around for a bit. Said they were checking on the injury." He kept his voice flat. "Nobody said sorry."

I looked at the brace on his ankle. "What did the doctor say?"

"Mild ligament strain. Two weeks rest." He shrugged. "It's fine, it's not—"

Movement at the far end of the corridor cut him off.

Three people heading for the exit. A teenager in a Grayson Academy track jacket flanked by two men in suits. The one in front walked fast, phone out, talking at the man beside him without looking up.

Oliver went still. "That's them."

I was already standing.

I crossed the corridor and stopped in front of them. "Excuse me."

The man with the phone looked up. His eyes moved over me the way people do when they've spent too long in rooms where everyone defers to them.

"Your son deliberately hit my brother after the match," I said. "He's got a ligament injury and a head wound. I'd like you to go back and apologize to him."

The corridor went quiet for a second. The man's expression didn't change. He said something to the assistant beside him, low and quick. The assistant leaned in, then straightened.

"Miss," the man said, his tone smooth and final, "physical contact during competitive sport is normal. We came to the hospital to confirm there were no serious injuries. I consider the matter closed."

He turned to go.

"I wasn't finished," I said. My voice stayed level. "Your son did it on purpose. An apology isn't a confession—it's basic decency."

He turned back fully this time. His gaze sharpened, moved over me with something more calculated in it now.

"You're a West?" he said. Not loud. Just clear.

I didn't deny it.

Something shifted in his expression—not quite a smile, but close. "The West family." He repeated the name slowly, like he was tasting it. "And you're standing here talking to me about decency?"

Behind me, I heard Oliver shift—the scrape of a chair, the sound of him getting to his feet.

I didn't move. I kept my eyes on the man in front of me and waited.

The assistant stepped forward. "A West girl, coming to lecture the Graysons." His voice had a smirk in it. "You really think you have the standing to—"

Footsteps.

Not fast. Measured. The kind that makes the air in a room change before you can explain why.

Alexander Sterling came around the corner of the corridor. Suit jacket open, top button undone, a silver pill case held loosely between two fingers. He walked to my side and stopped.

He didn't speak. He just stood there, and looked at the man across from us, and let two full seconds pass.

The assistant had gone quiet.

Alexander turned his head slightly and looked at the assistant—just looked—then spoke. His voice was quiet, unhurried, and every person in that corridor heard it perfectly.

"This is my fiancée."

He let it sit for a moment. Then his gaze moved back to the man with the phone, and he said, without any shift in tone at all:

"What did you say her identity was?"