Chapter 2
Derek POV
I never wanted this marriage.
Three years ago, my grandmother Margaret fell gravely ill. The doctors gave her months, maybe weeks. As her favorite grandson, I couldn't refuse what everyone believed was her dying wish.
Under mounting family pressure, I agreed to marry Eleanor, the orphan girl who'd grown up in our household after her parents' deaths. My father, Jonathan, and mother, Catherine, promised this was merely a temporary arrangement—three years, after which I could divorce with no questions asked and no family interference. I would be free to choose someone I actually wanted to spend my life with.
I agreed, though I deeply resented being manipulated into this farce. After enduring six months of playing husband, I escaped to London under the pretense of professional development, fleeing a relationship I considered utterly absurd. Now, after establishing myself in London's financial world, I've decided to return to Boston and reclaim my life. The three-year deadline approaches, and divorce is inevitable, but I prefer not to dwell on these complications just yet.
The private jet began its descent into Boston airspace.
"Mr. Wells, we'll be landing in twenty minutes," my assistant said, handing me a leather portfolio. "I've prepared your Boston itinerary"
I flipped through the meticulously organized schedule, pausing when I spotted "Contact Eleanor" listed among tomorrow's tasks. A slight frown creased my brow. I decided not to inform her of my arrival—what would be the point?
My phone vibrated with an incoming message: "Heard you're returning to Boston? Dinner soon? - Seraphina"
I stared at the text, memories of Seraphina Bradley flooding back—our childhood together, the expectations our families had, the complicated history between us. I contemplated seeing her while in town but left the message unanswered. One complication at a time.
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 has arranged a welcome gathering at the club tonight at eight."
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, "the three-year mark is almost here. Have you started the divorce proceedings yet?"
I laughed coldly, taking a sip of the scotch he'd ordered for me. "All in due time. One thing at a time."
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, expensive whiskey, and the comfortable familiarity of old friends. Until someone asked the inevitable question.
"Where's your wife tonight? Shouldn't Eleanor be here celebrating your return?"
I took a slow sip of my drink, but before I could respond, Thomas jumped in.
"We're drinking here, man. What would we do with wives around? Total buzzkill."
Laughter rippled through the room, but I remained silent, suddenly aware of how little I knew about Eleanor's current life. Someone mentioned her flower shop was doing well, becoming quite popular among Boston's elite for special events. I felt an unexpected twinge—was it pride? Guilt? I couldn't name it.
Later, a woman in a short black dress approached me, standing closer than propriety dictated.
"May I have a drink with you?" she said, her voice deliberately sultry.
I held up my left hand, where my wedding band gleamed under the dim lighting. "Is my wedding ring not bright enough?"
She laughed, undeterred. "What's she like? Your wife?"
"Not as beautiful as you," I replied automatically, the practiced response of a man who knows what women want to hear.
"Bullshit," called one of my friends from across the room. "You couldn't find a more beautiful woman than his wife if you turned Boston upside down."
I felt a strange discomfort at hearing Eleanor praised this way and quickly changed the subject.
By ten, I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation kept taking. Someone had mentioned Eleanor's flower arrangements for the third time, and I felt irritated by her growing presence in my social circle.
"I should head out," I announced, feigning more intoxication than I felt. "Jetlag's killing me. Meeting tomorrow with the executive team. Need to appear somewhat coherent."
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—the skinny thirteen-year-old gradually transforming into the elegant woman she'd become. I thought about our impending divorce with a complexity of emotion I wasn't prepared to examine.
The car pulled up to our townhouse on Beacon Hill. The lights were on. Eleanor was home.
Stepping inside, I caught a faint lingering aroma of food, though no meal was in sight. The house was quiet; there was no sign of housekeepers or staff. Had Eleanor let them go? I noticed small changes throughout the house—different flowers, rearranged furniture, subtle touches that weren't there when I last visited.
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. Despite being married for three years, we'd rarely been intimate—a choice I'd made to maintain emotional distance. Yet standing there, taking in the sight of her partially exposed shoulder and the suggestion of what lay beneath that thin silk, I felt my body respond with unmistakable desire.
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.