Chapter 1
Eleanor Wetherby had never known the warmth of family. Orphaned at a young age, she was raised on the kindness of strangers, mostly the late George Sutherland, a man whose heart had room for one more. As he lay on his deathbed, every breath heavier than the last, his greatest concern was for Eleanor and his reluctant grandson, William Quinton. William had always been an ice block—cool, composed, and distant. Yet when George had pressed his frail hand against William’s arm, there had been a flicker of something softer. “Take care of her,” he rasped, the weight of a lifetime of regrets washing over him. “Until she’s graduated.” William nodded, but his heart didn't flutter at the prospect. He was a man accustomed to solitude, a fortress of barriers he’d carefully erected since childhood. He had agreed, but now he wondered if he’d invited a vulnerability into the gloss of his carefully constructed life. *** On the day of her graduation, Eleanor stood in her room at Quinton Estate, a grand but lonely mausoleum of a mansion, packing her scant belongings into cardboard boxes. She was finally ready to leave, ostensibly free for the first time. As she tossed a worn-out shirt into the box, William casually tossed two red books onto the table—a couple of marriage certificates that had lingered on the edge of their lives. “Are you just going to ditch all of this?” he asked, eyebrow raised, voice laced with that usual detached charm. Eleanor glanced at the books, her heart a blend of anger and indifference. “Let’s just get a divorce, William.” His expression shifted as he snatched up a sonogram picture of the life they had unwittingly created—a tiny glimpse of their futures, forever intertwined. “And throw away what we’ve got growing here?” he replied, a hint of a smirk teasing at the corners of his mouth. *** Eleanor wasn't just a graduate; she was now the talked-about beauty and hottest new jewelry designer in town. Overnight, it seemed, ladies who wouldn’t have given her the time of day began crawling out of the woodwork to cozy up to her. “Did you design that piece everyone’s raving about? I’d do anything for the chance to get on your brother’s radar,” Beatrice Fairfax chirped, twirling a flirtatious hair strand that undoubtedly drove men wild. Cecilia Fairfax, the daughter of a jewelry mogul, pounced next. “I’ll make sure my father pulls a few strings for you. What’s your brother like? Help a girl out with his number?” Genevieve Fairfax joined in, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Honestly, I’ll take any picture you’ve got. A selfie, a candid, anything!” Eleanor could only blink at the absurdity of it all. That night, at the stroke of midnight, William took to Twitter with a desperate plea—a picture of himself on his knees over a washboard, clearly theatrical and crafted for a laugh. “Please, I’m begging you! Leave my wife alone!” he tweeted. “Don’t ask her for her number or pictures anymore; this washboard is killing me!” The world gasped collectively, and Eleanor couldn’t help but chuckle. Here was William, the titan of industry, reduced to this comical state, all for her sake. In the background of their tangled lives, Eleanor and William found themselves walking a tightrope—she, an introverted dreamer trying to find her footing in a world strewn with shiny baubles and sharp edges; he, a cold-hearted elite discovering that warmth might just be the biggest risk of all. Two souls bound by circumstance. A story unfolding unlike any other, promising to blend all the shades of love, regret, and unexpected joy. **To be continued…**
Chapter 2
July was the wet season in Little Lanesbury, and the village’s only dirt road had turned into a swamp of mud, a textured canvas marked by the paw prints of cats and dogs, and the waddling imprints of ducks. Residents preferred to navigate the overgrown paths of the fields rather than sully their shoes on the filthy road. Eleanor's Manor stood just off this muddy track. Eleanor Wetherby, having finished her homework for the day, perched on the steps and stared blankly at the saturated earth when a massive SUV rolled into her line of sight. Little Lanesbury was notorious for its poverty, home to fewer than thirty families. Those with any means had long since moved away. It was a place where having a vehicle of any kind made you a beacon of wealth; even a motorcycle was a rare spectacle. To many, the machine-groomed road was merely a façade, a reminder of prosperity that had largely passed them by. The sudden appearance of the SUV ignited Eleanor’s curiosity. Who could possibly be visiting? Some wealthy city dweller returning? The news would spread like wildfire, whispered over kitchen tables and at the local market before sundown. Inside the vehicle, Thomas Davenport struggled with a tattered piece of paper he dared call a map. He glanced back at his employer, William Quinton, and said, “Sir, this should be the place.” William squinted out at the dreary scene. The drizzle hung in the air like a dreary poem made tangible, and yet the squalor around him—a muddied street where weeds thrived and muck lay thick—made him cringe. The disgraceful sight of ragged ducks roaming about with feathers soiled beyond recognition only deepened his discomfort. Furrowing his brow tighter, he thought, if his grandfather hadn’t insisted on this visit, he imagined he would only ever witness such a place through the lens of a television screen. “Sir, perhaps you’d prefer to wait in the car,” Thomas suggested, picking up on Williams's unease. A member of the elite Quinton family didn’t belong in a place like this. Hell, even Thomas, who had seen his share of rough spots, was reluctant to step out and get his shoes dirty. William didn’t respond. Instead, he rolled down the window and caught sight of a run-down shack not far off, where a young girl with long hair sat on the threshold, peering in their direction. She wore a faded blue dress with patched shoulders and had bare feet that were grimy from the ground below. If the address was correct, this girl was the one William had come to find. He swung open the door and braved the light rain, heading straight for the ramshackle home. Thomas hurriedly grabbed an umbrella and secured the vehicle. Eleanor Wetherby’s gaze was locked on the SUV and its occupant. To her surprise, out stepped a tall man with long limbs. Her heart raced. Though she did well in school, words evaded her as she took in the figure before her; he was strikingly handsome—a vision far beyond anyone she had ever encountered. If pressed to describe him, she would resort to textbook clichés: sharp features, striking eyes, an elegant bearing, all the words that came to mind felt wholly inadequate for capturing the beauty standing before her. She watched as he moved closer, panic washing over her. She dropped her head, the weight of a second glance feeling like an invasion. In a flurry, she stood up and shut the door behind her, leaving just a sliver ajar. He must be here looking for Margaret Lowell next door, she reasoned, and wanting to avoid the unfamiliarity of a stranger, she instinctively chose to hide. William frowned deeply, watching the door seal shut in front of him. Thomas acted more quickly, stepping up to Eleanor’s door and knocking softly. “Hey there, little lady. We’re not here to cause any trouble. We just want to talk to you.” “W-who are you?” Eleanor stuttered, scared of the intrusion. She had watched the new arrivals with biated breath—never expecting someone would knock on her door. Thoughts of stories involving kidnappings flared in her mind, and suddenly, fear coiled around her chest. Yet here she was, alone. No choice but to swallow her terror, tears threatened to well up. “Don’t be afraid. We come from George Quinton,” Thomas explained, straining to keep his tone gentle. After years with his stoic master, he felt almost like an ice statue himself, learning that warmth was sometimes necessary. William’s brow remained creased, puzzled as to why this girl seemed so frightened. She looked like a timid quail, arms crossed defensively and eyes darting between Thomas and the door. At the mention of George Quinton, however, Eleanor flinched and softened slightly; the name belonged to the man who had supported her—a saving grace in her lonely life. Since losing her family, Eleanor had been raised on the kindness of villagers, unable to attend school because she had to help harvest and work the fields to earn her meals. George Quinton's support finally allowed her to step into a classroom, to be a part of a world she had only glimpsed from afar. He was the one person she could always count on. Encouraged, she took a deep breath, gathering her courage. Slowly, she opened the door, peering through the small gap at Thomas and William. “Y-you're here for me?” she murmured, a soft tremor in her voice. “Come in, please,” she said, stepping aside with a nervous smile. She hurried to grab two dilapidated stools, hastily wiping them down with her sleeve, keenly aware that they were guests in her humble home. William entered cautiously, taking in the stark surroundings—barely furnished, he noted the small space where kindness and humility reigned. A table missing half its corner stood against the wall, with a few well-worn books laid atop it. It took every ounce of his patience not to step back out into the rain. But this was just the beginning.
Chapter 3
William Quinton hated the thought of stepping into the decaying old mansion known as The Ruined Tower, but when he caught sight of Eleanor Wetherby’s timid, deer-like eyes, something in him recoiled at the thought of crushing her fragile sense of dignity. He didn’t take a seat; instead, he stood there, watching as Eleanor shuffled her feet, her gaze glued to the floor, betraying her overwhelming nervousness. “Come with me,” he said, his lips pressed tight. Eleanor glanced at Thomas Davenport, her expression fraught, and then back at William, who wore an unyielding mask. After what felt like an eternity, she responded, her voice barely above a whisper, “I’d rather not.” **Chapter One** “Come in.” William stepped through the door and called for Margaret Lowell to greet the newcomer. Eleanor lingered at the entrance, her eyes filled with hesitation. The polished tiles of the foyer gleamed unnaturally bright, and the opulent decor surpassed even her wildest dreams of what a wealthy home might look like. She stared down at her shoes—her best ones, a pair of simple cloth shoes painstakingly stitched together by her late grandfather. He had made countless pairs for her, but she rarely wore any, saving them for special occasions. Now, they were all she had left of him; a reminder of his love now turned to ghostly threads. But compared to the luxurious footwear arrayed in the grand entry, her shoes appeared woefully inadequate, and Eleanor felt her heart pounding painfully in her chest. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. The sights along the way had overwhelmed her—far more than any books could convey. She felt like a stranger in someone else’s dream, a dream where she was a princess with everything she desired. Yet with that dream shattered, she was left empty-handed in the harsh light of reality. As she clutched the doorframe and kept her head down, Margaret Lowell emerged. She took one look at Eleanor and quickly darted her eyes away, an unimpressed frown forming on her lips at what looked to her like a picked-up stray. Eleanor kept her head low, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She appeared no more than fifteen or sixteen, dressed in clothing that seemed decades old and patched at the seams. The frayed edges of her shoes and the tattered cloth bag slung over her shoulder were all enough to make Margaret feel uneasy. “You must be Eleanor Wetherby,” Margaret said, eyeing her skeptically. “I’m Margaret Lowell. Come on in. Wear these.” She waved a hand dismissively toward a pair of shoes at the entrance without waiting for a response, then stepped inside. Eleanor looked up to find Margaret had already disappeared, leaving Eleanor acutely aware of the fact that Margaret didn’t seem thrilled to see her. Now that she was here, backing out was pointless. After a pause, she reluctantly swapped out her shoes and stepped through the threshold. Noticing Eleanor’s nervous demeanor, Margaret’s disapproval only deepened. “Follow me; I'll show you to your room,” she instructed briskly. Despite her disdain, Eleanor was a guest brought in by the young master, a fact that Margaret kept reminding herself. She knew it wouldn’t do to let the young master see her acting rudely. Keeping her head down, Eleanor followed close behind Margaret, doing her best not to trip over her own feet. She had experienced enough cold indifference from houses and families like this one to last a lifetime. “Your room is in the Second Hall Banquet Hall,” Margaret said. “You can wander around the second floor, but the young master stays in The Blackwood Chamber on the third floor. You’re not allowed up there; he doesn’t like to be disturbed.” Margaret’s tone was impatient, clearly trying to lay out the rules without wasting any more time than necessary. She had been looking after William for months, yet still didn’t quite understand his temperament. Better to be cautious than risk offending him. Eleanor nodded, absorbing every word. The mention of William’s room on the third floor made her heart flutter with a strange mix of excitement and dread. As long as she stayed away from that area, perhaps she could avoid crossing paths with him. William Quinton was a man of few words, and his silence filled her with a strange, deep-rooted fear. She’d felt his dislike long before she even set foot in Little Lanesbury. If it hadn’t been for Thomas Davenport’s letter to George Quinton, she would never have dreamed of leaving her old life behind. “This is your room. I’ll be going now.” Margaret pointed at a door, made a quick exit, and disappeared down the stairs. With all the fuss surrounding her arrival, Eleanor felt like a fish out of water. She watched Margaret’s departing silhouette fade away, her heart sinking further as she hesitantly stepped into her new bedroom. The gigantic space flickered with a rosy hue, illuminated by the light flooding in through massive windows. The bed loomed large, dwarfing her memories of home, while a stunning vanity stood in the corner, adorned with countless bottles and jars. The sight of a full-length mirror caught her eye; she was taken aback by the reflection of her own face—lips cracked, skin pale, and eyes devoid of spark. As she nervously placed her cloth bag on the floor, a twinge of anxiety gripped her. The place felt impossibly foreign and grand, far removed from her modest, familiar existence. She drew closer to the bed, tempted to touch its soft surface but flinched at the thought of staining it with her hands. Instead, she quickly turned and retreated to the bathroom, needing to wash her hands. It was just as expansive as the bedroom, and she stared in the mirror again, taking in the stranger staring back—an unfamiliar face, a girl lost in the splendor of this new world.
Chapter 4
Eleanor Wetherby stood before the ornate mirror, struggling to shake off the weight of recent events. Was she, like Cinderella, awaiting the midnight hour when everything would return to darkness, leaving her an orphan once more? She reached out to touch the reflection, forcing a smile through the haze of uncertainty. "Well, I might as well relish the time I have before the clock strikes twelve. Maybe it's Charles Wetherby watching over me from up there, guiding a kind soul to help me out," she thought. The girl in the mirror smiled back, a captivating brightness in her eyes—as if a wildflower blooming amid the mountains, sweet and pure. With a deep breath, Eleanor finished fluffing her pillow and washed her hands, drying them carefully on a paper towel. The bed beneath her fingers felt soft and inviting, akin to the finest duckling's down, cozy against her skin. She let her fingers glide over every surface in the room, savoring the moment she spent far away from Little Lanesbury. This was Northgate, a city she had only read about in books, a place that felt surreal, as if the very air was charged with dreams yet to be realized. The lavishness of her surroundings felt almost suffocating. George Quinton had already shown immense generosity by funding her education, and now William Quinton had brought her to this extravagant home. It was as if she had struck a lifetime of good luck all at once, yet the opulence of the place made Eleanor uneasy, grounding her in a reality that felt too foreign, too far removed from her humble upbringing. Treading lightly, Eleanor edged the door shut, making sure it creaked as little as possible, like a ghost trying to escape into the hallway. As she peered down at the first floor, the grandeur unfolded before her—far more stunning than when she first arrived. Across from a plush couch was a striking black wall, reminiscent of the TV screens at the Wycliffe home, adorned with a collection of antique vases that looked like they were rescued from a time capsule. Eleanor had never encountered such artifacts before. But after devouring countless tomes at Godfrey Academy, she had absorbed knowledge about art and history from those pages. She always understood there were people living in worlds so much grander than her own, yet the Quinton family’s wealth was staggering in its excess, a reality she'd never anticipated. Her feet glided down the polished wooden stairs, the sound of her footsteps guiding her into the kitchen. She found Margaret Lowell working tirelessly, her back turned as she chopped vegetables. "Margaret, let me help you!" Eleanor offered with a hint of enthusiasm. Having learned to cook at the age of five, she had often lent a hand at the Wycliffe household. Margaret glanced over her shoulder, sizing her up with an eyebrow arched in suspicion. "You know how to cook?" "Sure do," Eleanor replied confidently, dismissing Margaret’s doubtful gaze. "Then wash those greens." Margaret jerked her thumb towards a pile of slightly wilted veggies. Eleanor obeyed, carefully washing each leaf, then snapping them into manageable pieces, placing them into the basket with precision. Before long, she called out, "Margaret, I'm done!" As Margaret came to inspect, a brief flicker of surprise flitted across her face. But as soon as she saw the condition of the greens, her demeanor flipped, the corners of her mouth tightening. "What are these? They’re too tough to eat! Are you trying to mess with me?" Her voice sharpened, echoing with the authority of someone unaccustomed to mediocrity. Eleanor's heart sank. She had never been scolded for washing vegetables back in Little Lanesbury. "I-I didn’t know, I'm sorry…" she mumbled, retreating a step, feeling small under Margaret’s glare. Margaret, containing her ire by the thinnest of margins, barked, "Just get out of here. You're only making a mess." Eleanor dashed from the kitchen, the sound of the door slamming behind her making her jump as if someone had pulled the rug from beneath her feet. In the living room, she sank onto the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at the plush carpet while questions buzzed around her like pesky flies. Up on the third floor, William Quinton stood by the large window in his study, sunlight pouring in relentlessly, battling against the frigid blast of the air conditioning. The dichotomy mirrored his own restless thoughts. His phone buzzed, displaying the name Robert Jennings. William swiped to answer, biting back his irritation. "What?" "Hey there! Back from that little village of yours, huh? Any luck with the girl?" Robert’s voice had a singsong quality, dripping with mock amusement. "Cut to the chase," William snapped, an ice-cold edge slicing through his tone. Anyone who didn’t know him would think someone had made a grave mistake to rattle the iron-willed heir. "Oh come on, man! I wish I could’ve been there to see your face. Looks like you've been through the wringer!” Robert laughed uproariously, keen on pushing William's buttons. “Too much chatter.” With a swift tap, William disconnected, flinging his phone onto the desk, frustration bubbling beneath his calm facade as he gazed unseeingly out the window. The thought of Eleanor stirred a knot of unwillingness inside him. Already looking to shoulder the heavy weight of the Quinton legacy, his obligations had now expanded to include this girl he barely knew—one who had been plucked from obscurity and dragged into this whirlwind of affluence. He recalled the struggle it took to bring her to Northgate—how she initially resisted, each obstacle seeming to mount the stakes higher. If it hadn’t been for Thomas Davenport’s intervention, she might have eluded him altogether. Now Robert’s taunts hung in the air, but William brushed them aside. While the house staff would keep an eye on Eleanor, he had no interest or time to spare. With a heavy sigh, William turned and returned to his desk, praying to tackle the mountainous pile of work that awaited him, wondering when this tangled mess would finally begin to make sense.
Chapter 5
"Eleanor Wetherby, go call Master William for dinner," Margaret Lowell called out as she placed the steaming dishes on the table. "It's in The Blackwood Chamber on the third floor, the room at the very end with the black wooden door." Eleanor opened her mouth to protest, to say she was scared to go, but in an instant, Margaret was back in the kitchen, the door closing firmly behind her. Eleanor swallowed her words, feeling them lodge painfully in her throat. She hesitated at the staircase, the admonition from earlier still echoing in her mind. She had been warned not to venture to the third floor, yet here she was, instructed to go there just the same. A knot of fear tightened in her stomach at the thought of William Quinton, whose presence loomed over her like a shadow. If it hadn’t been for Thomas Davenport’s reassuring presence, Eleanor wouldn’t have dared to follow William to Northgate. Standing uncertainly at the door, Eleanor raised her hand, then lowered it, repeating the motion as if caught in a tug-of-war with her own courage. Finally, she managed to knock. Inside, William was busy with some papers and barely acknowledged the sound. He was accustomed to Margaret’s soft knocks—two quick raps to signal that it was time to eat, her footsteps fading as she left him to finish up. But Margaret hadn’t mentioned there was no need to keep knocking, so Eleanor, hearing silence within, continued to rap gently on the door, convinced he hadn’t heard her. With every knock, the sound began to grate on William’s nerves. He pressed harder on his pen, an unforgiving stroke tearing through the paper and rendering the document useless. Frustrated, he tossed it aside and swung the door open, encountering a wide-eyed Eleanor, her hand awkwardly suspended in mid-air. Her gaze dropped as she caught sight of the impatience in his eyes. She staggered back a step, a whisper escaping her lips, “Dinner’s ready, brother.” William felt a surge of annoyance mixed with something softer as he watched her tiny, timid form. He suppressed the irritation that bubbled just beneath the surface. “Got it,” he replied tersely. As Eleanor practically fled down the hall, panic fluttering in her chest, William rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was to feel guilty for snapping at her. He slammed the door a little too hard, the sound echoing louder than he had intended, making Eleanor flinch from the second floor. When he finally descended for dinner, William spared a glance around the table. Eleanor remained seated, her head down, too anxious to fill her plate. With the silence thickening like fog, it drew his attention. “Why is she so afraid of me?” he mused as he watched her pick at her food without making a sound. Something inside him shifted as he considered her upbringing, and a pang of sympathy crept in. He pushed a piece of meat toward her bowl, casually remarking, “Eat up. After dinner, Margaret will take you out for some new clothes.” “N-No, really. I have enough clothes,” Eleanor stammered, setting her fork down hastily. “The Quinton family has already done so much for me. I can’t ask for more.” “Your clothes were thrown out,” William replied with an edge, unable to hide the firmness in his voice. “Since you’re part of the Quinton family now, you should dress in a way that reflects that. I won’t have you making us look bad.” Feeling flustered, Eleanor bit her lip as the truth sank in. It dawned on her that William was concerned about maintaining the family’s image, and that somehow gave her little heart permission to concede. Her old clothes hardly suited her new life. Margaret’s wardrobe alone was a hundred times better—let alone whatever the Quinton family wore. “Fine,” she sighed, defeated. “I understand.” “Just eat. If you have any questions, ask Margaret,” he said, his tone softening slightly. He wanted to ensure she felt comfortable, aware of how little he had to do with helping her transition. It had started as an obligation to George Quinton—bring Eleanor back—but ever since he learned about her past, he felt a different kind of responsibility toward her. He deliberately slowed his pace, trying to make the atmosphere lighter as she nervously maneuvered her food. When she finally seemed to finish, he prepared to stand up. “Brother…” Eleanor’s quiet voice hesitated, stopping him in his tracks. “My room is too big. I don’t need such a nice room; I’d be okay in a smaller one.” Her gaze remained fixed to the floor, her fingers nervously intertwining—an indication of her anxiety. It took all her courage to speak up, and she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. William turned slightly, catching only the top of her dark hair. “We have plenty of space. Since you’re with us now, you’ll enjoy your stay. Don’t overthink it,” he said, voice cool yet with an unexpected softness that shone through, calming her. He had no real experience with how girls lived; there were no female relatives in the Quinton home to guide him. The thought had crossed his mind that perhaps Eleanor might be overwhelmed by the size of her quarters. “Thank you, brother,” Eleanor whispered, bowing her head in gratitude. Since William had said so, she felt it was best not to press the issue further, not wanting to be perceived as a burden.
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