He took a pen from his pocket and wrote a figure on the back of the napkin Julia had left. He turned it toward Eleanor. It was an annual salary. The number had six figures.
Eleanor stopped breathing.
It was several times more than she made here, even with the most generous tips.
“Plus a full benefits package,” Leo added casually. “Top-tier health insurance. And since my group is a corporate partner of Northwestern Memorial Hospital…” he paused.
Eleanor gasped. It was one of the best hospitals in the country. A place where miracles happened, but which was inaccessible to ordinary people without a fortune.
“I can have your father transferred to a private room in Chicago by Monday,” Leo said.
“All expenses will be covered by the foundation’s corporate insurance. He’ll get the best therapy in the country. You’ll be able to visit him every evening after work. He’ll be close by.”
Tears welled up in Eleanor’s eyes. They streamed down her cheeks, washing away the last of her makeup.
This wasn’t just a job offer. It was a lifeline. It was the end of a relentless, soul-crushing struggle.
“Why?” she managed to ask through her tears. “Why are you doing this for me?”
Leo leaned back. His face grew serious.
“Because tonight, you stood up to a man who thinks money makes him a god,” Leo said. “You used your intellect as a weapon. You reminded me that dignity can’t be bought. I invest in people, Eleanor. And I’m betting on you.”
He stood up.
“Come to the office at the address on this card Monday morning at 9:00 AM. And wear comfortable shoes. We have a lot of reading to do.”
Six months later, the Wallace Foundation’s library, housed in a historic brownstone in the Gold Coast neighborhood, was a sanctuary of quiet and light. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams slanting through the tall windows, illuminating shelves of leather-bound books. Eleanor Vance sat at a large oak table, dressed in an elegant but comfortable business suit.
Her shoes didn’t hurt. She was examining a faded letter, using a magnifying glass to decipher the intricate script.
“Ms. Vance.”
Eleanor looked up. It was her assistant, a bright graduate student from Northwestern named Dennis.
“Yes, Dennis?”
“The translations of the diplomatic correspondence are ready for your review. And you have a visitor in the lobby. He says he’s family.”
Eleanor frowned, her heart skipping a beat.
“Is he alone?”
“No, he’s in a wheelchair, with an attendant.”
Eleanor shot up from her chair, leaving the 18th century behind. She walked quickly down the hall and into the bright, airy lobby.
There, in a modern, comfortable wheelchair, sat Michael Vance. He looked like a different man. The gray pallor was gone, replaced by a healthy complexion.
He was wearing a clean, new shirt. A nurse from the private clinic stood beside him.
“Dad,” Eleanor breathed, walking toward him. “Is everything okay?”
Michael looked up at her. His eyes, once full of confusion and frustration, were now clear and bright.
He raised his hand, the one that had been immobile for so long, and reached for his daughter. He took a deep, deliberate breath. He had been working with speech therapists every day for the last six months.
“Ellie,” he said. The voice was raspy, unused, but the word was clear.
Eleanor froze.
For the first time in three long years, she heard him say her name.
“Dad…”
Tears of joy sprang from her eyes. Michael squeezed her hand tightly. He looked around the lobby with pride—at the books, the elegant surroundings, the new life his daughter had earned and reclaimed.
Then he looked back into her eyes.
“Proud,” he said, the word a struggle, but firm. “So proud.”
Eleanor knelt before his chair and hugged him, burying her face in his familiar shoulder. She cried with pure joy, with relief, with the knowledge that the nightmare was finally over.
She had her life back, her dream back, and her father back. And somewhere, on the other side of Chicago, Gavin Sterling was probably yelling at another server or staring in horror at his fund’s plummeting stock prices, forever chasing a status he could never truly achieve.
He could have his millions, while he still had them. But Eleanor… Eleanor had words. And as she had proven that night in the restaurant, the right words are the only currency that never loses its value.
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