Chapter 7
Eleanor POV
The Wells family dining room was a study in old-money opulence: a massive mahogany table that could seat twenty, crystal chandeliers casting warm light over gleaming silver and fine china, and oil paintings of stern-looking ancestors lining the walls. Tonight, the table had been set for just four, with Derek and me seated on one side and Catherine and Jonathan across from us.
I took my place beside Derek, acutely aware of Jonathan's presence across the table. Despite having lived in their home for years, Derek's father had always intimidated me. As the patriarch of the Wells family and chairman of Wells Investment Bank, Jonathan Wells commanded respect in every room he entered. His silver hair and penetrating gaze gave him an air of authority that made me instinctively straighten my posture.
"Mr. Wells," I greeted him politely, never having called him "Father" despite our legal relationship. I noticed Catherine's slight frown at my formality, but ignored it. I had never presumed to call them "Mom" or "Dad," even after marrying Derek—and they had never invited such familiarity. To them, I was always the orphaned girl they'd taken in, a temporary resident in their lives rather than true family.
The first course arrived—a delicate butternut squash soup that I barely tasted as Catherine began her interrogation of Derek.
"How was London, darling? Over two years is such a long time to be away," she said, her voice warm with maternal affection that was never directed at me.
"Productive," Derek replied, taking a sip of his wine. "Frontier Capital has established itself firmly in the European market."
"And the weather? I've always found London winters so dreary compared to Boston," Catherine continued.
"About the same," Derek said with a shrug. "Gray and wet."
Catherine frowned slightly at his terse answers. "You've gotten thinner. Are you eating properly over there?"
I watched this exchange with fascination. The Derek I knew in private was articulate and often sharp-tongued, but with his mother, he became almost monosyllabic, as if conserving words was a form of resistance.
"Eleanor," Jonathan's voice startled me from my observations. "How is Four Seasons Florals doing? I hear you're providing arrangements for the Symphony gala."
Surprised by his interest, I nodded. "Yes, they contacted me last week. It's a significant opportunity."
"Smart business move," Jonathan commented. "Cultural institutions are excellent clients—consistent orders and valuable networking."
His assessment was purely practical, viewing my passion for flowers solely through a business lens. Still, it was more acknowledgment than I usually received from him.
"I'm also working with the Boston Art Museum on a special exhibition next month," I added, feeling an inexplicable need to prove myself.
"Oh?" Catherine's attention shifted to me. "I wasn't aware you had connections at the museum."
The implication was clear: how could someone like me, without the Wells family's social standing, secure such a prestigious client?
"She's always obsessing over those flowers," Derek remarked dryly, cutting into his salmon. "Probably spends more time with plants than with people."
I felt a pang at his dismissive tone. Clearly, he knew nothing about my business or my accomplishments over the past two years. His comment wasn't a defense—it was a criticism wrapped in casual indifference.
Catherine looked satisfied with Derek's response. "Yes, well, I suppose Eleanor has always preferred... quieter pursuits."
The conversation drifted to other topics: Jonathan's latest acquisition for the bank, Catherine's charity foundation work, developments in Boston's financial district. I remained mostly silent, responding when addressed but otherwise watching the Wells family dynamics play out before me.
Midway through the main course—perfectly cooked salmon with dill sauce that reminded me painfully of the dinner I'd prepared for Derek's return—Catherine cleared her throat and turned her gaze to both of us.
"I was just thinking," she began in a tone that suggested she'd been planning this moment carefully, "it's nearly been three years since your wedding. The agreement will be concluding soon."
The table fell silent. Derek's fork paused halfway to his mouth.
"Mother," he said, his voice carrying a warning.
"What?" Catherine looked innocently between us. "I'm merely pointing out a fact. The three-year term was agreed upon by everyone. I assume you've both been making preparations."
"This isn't the appropriate time to discuss this," Derek said, his jaw tightening.
"I disagree," Catherine replied smoothly. "With only two months remaining, it seems prudent to address the matter openly. Your father and I simply want to ensure everything proceeds amicably."
I stared at my plate, feeling three pairs of eyes on me. The salmon on my fork suddenly looked unappetizing.
"I'm sure Eleanor understands the arrangement," Catherine continued. "After all, the terms were quite clear from the beginning."
"Mother, Father," Derek set down his utensils with deliberate calm, though I could see tension in his shoulders. "I'm an adult. I'm perfectly capable of handling my own affairs, including my marriage. You don't need to concern yourselves with the timeline."
I glanced at him, surprised by his response. It wasn't a defense of me, exactly, but rather an assertion of his independence. Still, I could see genuine irritation in the set of his jaw—he clearly resented his parents' interference, regardless of his feelings about our marriage.
"We only want what's best for you, son," Jonathan interjected smoothly.
"Then trust me to determine what that is," Derek replied, his tone final. "When decisions need to be made, they'll be made. By me."
Catherine pursed her lips, clearly displeased at being shut down. "Very well. I was merely trying to help."
An uncomfortable silence descended. I could feel Derek seething beside me, though his face remained carefully controlled. Something had shifted in the dynamic, and I couldn't understand what or why.
"I'll respect whatever Derek decides," I finally said, breaking the silence. "If he's ready to proceed with the divorce, I can sign the papers whenever he wants."
My words seemed to diffuse some of the tension, though Derek's expression remained unreadable. Catherine nodded approvingly.
"That's very... pragmatic of you, Eleanor."
The remainder of dinner passed in strained conversation about neutral topics. As soon as dessert was finished, I excused myself, claiming I needed to use the restroom. Instead, I headed upstairs, drawn to the room that had been mine during the years I lived with the Wells family. I needed a moment alone, away from the suffocating atmosphere downstairs.
The room remained exactly as I'd left it when I moved out to live with Derek—pale blue walls, white furniture, and a window seat overlooking the garden. This space had been both sanctuary and prison during my adolescence: a place where I'd dreamed of belonging to the Wells family in a way that mattered, of being seen by Derek as more than his parents' ward.
I ran my fingers along the spines of books on my old shelf, remembering how I'd devoured them, desperate to educate myself to a standard worthy of the Wells name. All that effort, and I was still the outsider—the temporary Mrs. Wells, counting down to my exit.
Then a soft click from the doorway broke the silence. I turned, startled, to find Derek standing there, his expression inscrutable in the dim light.