— “None. Но here’s the interesting part.”
Arthur pointed to a newspaper clipping from three years ago.
— “Before she was Eleanor Vance the waitress, she was Eleanor Vance the Conservatory scholar. A soprano, top of her class.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed as he read the headline: *”Prodigy’s Fall. Vance Breaks Down on Stage Amid Drug Rumors.”*
— “She didn’t break down,” Julian muttered, remembering the sound of her voice in the restaurant. “That woman has ice water in her veins. You don’t sing the Queen of the Night like that if you’re unstable.”
— “There’s something else,” Arthur added. “The rumors that ruined her career? They trace back to a PR firm owned by the Thorne family.”
Julian froze.
— “Thorne? As in Isabella? Isabella’s father owns that firm. Isabella was in the academy that year too, wasn’t she? A mezzo-soprano who didn’t make the cut for the solo.”
A dark, cold fury rose in Julian’s chest. It all clicked. Isabella, with her petty jealousy and endless resources, had crushed a rival before she could even rise. And tonight, without knowing who she was mocking, Isabella had tried to do it again.
Julian closed the folder. The image of Eleanor standing on that stage, defiant and magnificent, burned in his mind. He looked at the engagement ring Isabella had thrown back at him in a fit of rage earlier. She’d tossed it at his head in the limo. He turned the ring over in his hand.
It meant nothing to him. The merger with Thorne Industries was the only reason he’d proposed. The board was pressuring him: settle down, create a stable image, reassure the investors. They wanted a Mrs. Sterling, but the contract didn’t specify it had to be Isabella Thorne.
— “Arthur,” Julian said. A plan was forming in his head. A plan that was reckless, dangerous, and absolutely perfect. “Get the car.”
— “It’s two in the morning, sir.”
— “I know.” Julian buttoned his tuxedo jacket. “We’re going to the outskirts.”
The knock on the door was heavy and commanding. It wasn’t a landlord demanding rent. It was the knock of someone who owned the building. Eleanor jumped up from the couch where she’d been counting crumpled bills. She grabbed an old baseball bat by the door and crept forward.
— “Who is it?”
— “Julian Sterling.”
The name hit harder than any bat could. She froze.
— “Go away.”
— “Ms. Vance, I’m not here to fire you. I own the building the restaurant is in, but I don’t manage the staff. Open the door, or I’ll have my security bypass the lock. We need to talk.”
Eleanor weighed her options. She cracked the door open, leaving the chain on. Julian stood in the dingy hallway, looking ridiculous and out of place in his tuxedo. His eyes scanned her face, noting the exhaustion, the lack of makeup, the fear.
— “May I come in?”
— “No.”
— “Fine,” Julian said, leaning against the doorframe. “Then I’ll discuss your brother’s medical bills right here in the hall where the neighbors can hear.”
Eleanor gripped the door.
— “What do you know about Leo?”
— “I know he needs a kidney. I know you’re $250,000 in debt. I know you’re working three jobs and drowning.” He paused, his voice dropping. “And I know Isabella Thorne ruined your life three years ago.”
Eleanor unhooked the chain and swung the door open.
— “Get in.”
She didn’t offer him a seat. The couch was covered in laundry, so they stood in the tiny living room.
— “What do you want?” Eleanor asked, crossing her arms. “You had your fun tonight. You proved your point to your fiancée. Leave me alone.”
— “She’s no longer my fiancée,” Julian said calmly. “I broke it off an hour ago.”
Eleanor blinked.
— “Congratulations. What does that have to do with me?”
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