Chapter 2

Derek POV

"Mr. Wells, we'll be landing in twenty minutes," my assistant, Markus, said, handing me a leather portfolio. "I've prepared your Boston itinerary, including tomorrow's meeting with Frontier Capital's executive team."

I nodded absently, staring out the window as Boston's skyline came into view. Nearly three years had passed since I'd agreed to this absurd marriage—a temporary arrangement that had felt like a prison sentence. London had been both my escape and my proving ground. While fleeing from a marriage I never wanted, I'd also been determined to show my father and Alexander that the second son of the Wells family was more than capable of building something significant without the family name clearing the path.

The irony wasn't lost on me—running from one familial obligation had led to my greatest professional success. Frontier Capital had flourished under my direction, growing from a modest venture to a respected name in London's financial district.

My phone vibrated with an incoming message from Thomas: [Welcome back to civilization. Somerset Club at 8. No excuses. The prodigal son needs a proper homecoming.]

I smiled despite myself. Some things never changed, including Thomas's flair for the dramatic.

At Logan International Airport, several photographers captured my arrival—the financial press never seemed to tire of documenting the movements of Boston's elite. I instinctively straightened my posture and adopted the perfect Wells family expression: confident but not arrogant, successful but approachable, wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

"Welcome back to Boston, Mr. Wells," my driver said, taking my bag. "Mr. Stone mentioned he's arranged a gathering at the club tonight."

I checked my watch. Seven.

"Take me directly to the club," I instructed, settling into the backseat of the black Bentley.

As we drove through familiar Boston streets, my mind drifted to the first time I saw Eleanor—a skinny thirteen-year-old from the state system, standing awkwardly in our marble foyer with that small, battered suitcase. I was fifteen then, more concerned with lacrosse practice than the terrified girl my parents had decided to take in. She had looked so lost, so out of place among the antiques and old money that filled our home.

The car pulled up to the private club, its brick façade and discreet entrance revealing nothing of the luxury within. Thomas was waiting in the lobby, his six-foot-four frame impossible to miss.

"The prodigal son returns!" Thomas boomed, pulling me into a crushing embrace.

"The London financial king finally deigns to visit the colonies," he continued, guiding me toward the bar. "How gracious of you."

I just chuckled as we settled into leather chairs in a corner of the bar, away from curious ears.

"So," Thomas said, lowering his voice, "feeling strange being back? I bet London's changed you."

I laughed, taking a sip of the scotch he'd ordered for me. "Boston seems smaller somehow."

"Speaking of differences," Thomas grinned, leaning forward conspiratorially, "how do London ladies compare to our Boston girls? I've always heard British women are more... reserved."

"A gentleman never tells," I replied with a smirk, grateful for the easy conversation.

Thomas nodded, not pressing further. That's what I appreciated about him—he never pushed where he wasn't wanted.

As more friends arrived for the impromptu welcome party, I felt myself relaxing slightly. Here, among people who wanted nothing from me beyond being Derek Wells, financial wunderkind, I could breathe more easily.

"To Derek," Thomas announced, raising his glass when our private room was filled with familiar faces. "Our financial genius has returned from conquering London. Wall Street beware!"

The evening progressed with easy conversation and expensive whiskey. I noticed how carefully everyone avoided mentioning Eleanor directly. They all knew the truth about our arrangement—the marriage of convenience to please my dying grandmother, the three-year timeline, the inevitable divorce. Their discretion was a kindness I hadn't expected but appreciated nonetheless.

"We should drink until dawn," Thomas declared around nine, ordering another bottle of aged scotch. "Like the old days."

"Can't do it tonight," I replied, already standing. "Meeting tomorrow with my father. Need to be sharp."

As I prepared to leave, I realized I hadn't decided where to spend the night. My parents' house would be quiet, predictable—but would also come with questions I wasn't ready to answer. The townhouse on Beacon Hill meant facing Eleanor after nearly a year since my last brief visit.

"Going home to the wife?" Thomas asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"It's late," I said simply, making my decision. "Might as well."

In the car heading toward Beacon Hill, exhaustion settled over me like a heavy blanket. I leaned back against the leather seat, closing my eyes briefly. Images of Eleanor floated through my mind—not just the child she'd been, but the woman she'd become.

There had been a time, during my adolescence, when I'd felt something stirring whenever she smiled at me across the breakfast table or when I caught her reading in the library, completely absorbed in her book. But Father's expectations had been relentless—Wells men focused on achievement, not sentiment. I'd buried those feelings, channeling everything into academics, sports, and later, finance.

The irony that she'd eventually become my wife wasn't lost on me. By then, whatever youthful attraction I might have felt had been replaced by resentment at being manipulated into marriage. Now we existed in an awkward limbo—legally bound but practically strangers. I'd found that maintaining a certain aloofness made our rare interactions easier, creating a buffer between us that protected us both.

The car pulled up to our townhouse on Beacon Hill. Looking up, I noticed a light still on in the second-floor bedroom. Eleanor was awake.

I used my key to enter, stepping into the darkened ground floor. Flipping on the light switch, I was struck by the immaculate condition of the place. Somehow, this perfection irritated me—a reminder of the pristine façade of our marriage, beautiful but hollow.

I moved toward the bedroom, not bothering to be quiet. Our inevitable encounter might as well happen now. Pushing open the door, I called out, "Eleanor," then froze on the threshold.

Eleanor sat up in bed, clearly startled by my entrance. The warm glow of the bedside lamp cast a golden light across her features. Her loose silk nightgown had slipped off one shoulder, revealing smooth, pale skin beneath. The thin fabric left little to the imagination, outlining her slender frame, delicate collarbones, and gentle curves I'd rarely allowed myself to acknowledge.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry as unwanted heat surged through me. In the nearly three years since our marriage, Eleanor seemed to have gained a certain softness, a quiet allure that I couldn't remember noticing before. Perhaps it had always been there, and I'd been too determined to keep my distance to see it. The lamplight played across her features, highlighting a maturity and elegance that caught me off guard.

This was purely physical, I told myself. A normal male reaction to an attractive woman—nothing more. I had never fallen for Eleanor and never would, despite what my body might suggest in this moment. This was just biology, not emotion.

In that moment, I was unable to move or speak, caught between primal want and the walls I'd built around myself for protection.