— “My grandmother—the matriarch of the Sterling family. She’s flying in from London.” Julian winced. “She controls the trust. She’s a formidable woman and she hates liars. If she suspects for a second this is a sham, the deal is off, and I lose the company.”
— “You’re telling me this now?!”
— “You handled Mozart’s Queen of the Night,” Julian said, opening the door. “I figured you could handle an eighty-year-old woman with a cane.”
— “You have no idea…” Eleanor muttered, putting on her glasses.
They stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, Julian took her hand. His palm was warm.
— “The show begins, Mrs. Sterling,” he whispered.
The elevator descended, carrying them to the lobby where a shark tank of reporters and a vengeful Isabella Thorne waited to tear them apart. The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival. Usually, that sound meant freedom, but now it sounded like a gong before a heavyweight fight.
— “Chin up,” Julian whispered. His hand was on Eleanor’s back, supporting her. “Don’t let them see you’re rattled.”
The doors slid open, and the world drowned in white light. Hundreds of flashes went off simultaneously. The strobe-like attack blinded Eleanor. The roar of questions was deafening.
— “Mr. Sterling, is it true? Who is she? What happened to Isabella Thorne?”
Julian moved with the grace of a shark cutting through water, guiding Eleanor toward a podium with microphones. Security formed a human wall, holding back the paparazzi. Eleanor’s heart was racing, but her face remained stoic. She was an opera singer; she knew how to wear a mask. She remembered the queens and heroines she had studied for years.
*”I am not Eleanor the waitress,”* she told herself. *”I am Eleanor Sterling.”*
They reached the microphones. Julian raised a hand, and the room went instantly silent. His authority was absolute.
— “Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Julian began in a commanding tone. “I’m here to introduce the woman who captured my heart. The future Mrs. Sterling. Eleanor.”
He stepped back, allowing Eleanor to stand in the spotlight. She adjusted the microphone.
— “Good morning,” she said. Her voice, trained and resonant, reached the back of the room effortlessly. “I know you have questions.”
— “I have one!” a voice rang out from the side.
The crowd parted, and Isabella Thorne stepped forward, looking like a vengeful goddess in YSL. She didn’t have a microphone, but her piercing voice didn’t need one.
— “Tell them who you really are, honey.” Isabella smirked, stopping just before the security line. She turned to the cameras, holding up an enlarged photograph. It was a grainy shot of Eleanor from three years ago: disheveled, looking ill, leaving a hospital after the incident.
— “This is Eleanor Vance!” Isabella shouted triumphantly. “The disgraced Conservatory dropout, the addict who couldn’t handle the pressure. Julian Sterling is marrying a junkie waitress!”
The room exploded. Reporters lunged toward Eleanor like a pack of wolves.
— “Is it true? Were you in rehab? Julian, did you know about this?”
Julian’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward to lead Eleanor away, but she didn’t move. She didn’t shrink back.
Eleanor looked at the photo, then at Isabella. She remembered the fear and shame she’d felt three years ago. But looking at Isabella now—desperate, cruel, petty—Eleanor realized she had nothing to be ashamed of. She leaned into the microphone.
— “Yes,” Eleanor said. One word silenced the room again.
Isabella’s smirk faltered. She had expected a denial.
— “My name was Eleanor Vance,” Eleanor continued. Her voice gained strength, ringing with the same intensity as her aria. “And yes, three years ago, I was hospitalized. Not because I was an addict, but because on the night of my debut, someone spiked my water with a sedative to ensure I failed.”
She looked directly at Isabella. The cameras followed her gaze. Isabella went pale.
— “I lost my scholarship,” Eleanor said, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. “I lost my career. I spent three years mopping floors and serving tables to pay for my brother’s medical bills because my mother died of a broken heart trying to clear my name. I am a waitress, and I am proud of it. Because while people like Ms. Thorne were buying dresses that cost more than my annual rent, I was learning how to survive.”
She took a breath and looked at Julian for the first time. He was staring at her with something like awe.
— “Mr. Sterling didn’t fall for a socialite,” Eleanor finished, turning back to the press. “He fell for a survivor. And if anyone has a problem with my past, you can take it up with my husband.”
She stepped back. A silence fell. Then, a lone reporter from a major paper shouted:
— “That’s a better story than a merger! Look over here, Mrs. Sterling!”
The cameras flashed again. Но the energy had changed. They weren’t attacking her anymore—they were worshipping her. A Cinderella story about a girl who survived a fall was gold. Isabella stood frozen, realizing she had just handed Eleanor a victory.
Julian leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.
— “That was magnificent.”
— “Get me out of here,” Eleanor whispered back. Her legs were finally starting to shake. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Julian put an arm around her waist, shielding her from view.
— “Arthur, the car!”
The next two weeks were a blur of fittings, florists, and legal briefings. Eleanor moved into the penthouse, but true to the contract, she slept in the guest wing. However, the lines were blurring: they ate breakfast together, argued about politics over evening tea. Julian discovered that his “waitress wife” had a sharp mind that rivaled his own.
The final test came on a rainy Tuesday evening. Evelyn Sterling arrived from London. Dinner was held in the private dining room of the penthouse. The table was set with 19th-century family silver. Evelyn sat at the head—a small woman with silver hair and eyes that could cut glass. She used her cane not for walking, but to point at things she didn’t approve of. So far, she hadn’t approved of the soup (too salty), the weather (too humid), or the flowers (too bright).
Eleanor sat to her right in a modest emerald dress. Julian sat opposite, unusually tense.
— “So,” Evelyn said, clattering her spoon down. “You’re the singing waitress.”
— “I am,” Eleanor replied evenly.
— “And you think you can handle the Sterling estate? Handle the board? The galas? The pressure?” Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. “My grandson is impulsive. He likes shiny new toys. But marriage is an institution, not a game.”
— “Grandmother,” Julian warned.
— “Quiet, Julian, I’m talking to the girl.” Evelyn returned her gaze to Eleanor. “Tell me, child, what do you know about running a household of this scale?”
Eleanor looked at the formidable woman. She saw it for what it was: a test. Evelyn didn’t care about pedigree. She cared about competence.
— “I know your tea is cold, ma’am,” Eleanor said softly.
Evelyn blinked.
— “I beg your pardon?”
Eleanor stood up. She didn’t call for the staff. She walked over to the side table where the silver tea service sat.
— “The maid poured the water too early,” Eleanor explained, checking the pot. “The Sterling tradition is Earl Grey, isn’t it? Earl Grey becomes bitter if it steeps too long. And it loses its flavor if the water is below 195 degrees.”
Eleanor deftly emptied the old tea, boiled fresh water, and brewed a new pot with the fluidity of someone who had done it a thousand times, but with the grace of an artist. She poured the tea and placed the cup perfectly in front of Evelyn, handle at three o’clock.
— “You’re worried I can’t manage staff or details?” Eleanor said, sitting back down. “Ma’am, I spent three years serving the most demanding people in the city. I know how to anticipate needs before they’re spoken. I know that details are the difference between a meal and an experience. A socialite assumes things will be done. A waitress makes sure they are.”
Evelyn looked at the tea. She took a sip. Silence hung over the table. Julian held his breath.
— “Perfect,” Evelyn whispered. She looked at Eleanor, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her stern face. “You have the hands of a worker and the bearing of a queen. Perhaps Julian isn’t as much of a fool as I thought.”
Julian let out a long breath.
— “Does that mean you give your blessing?”
— “We’ll see,” Evelyn tapped her cane. “But she survived dinner. That’s a start.”
Later that night, the tension of the grandmother’s visit shifted into something else. Eleanor stood on the balcony, watching the rain hit the glass. She felt a presence behind her.
— “You were incredible tonight,” Julian said. He was without his jacket, his tie loosened. He looked like just a man. “She hasn’t complimented anyone since 1998.”
— “She just respects hard work,” Eleanor said, not turning around. “Rich people usually don’t understand that.”
— “Is that what you think of me?” Julian asked, stepping closer. “That I’m just a rich man?”
Eleanor turned. He was close, too close. The city lights reflected in his dark eyes.
— “I think you’re a man who’s used to buying what he wants,” Eleanor said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I think you’re confused about what exactly you bought.”
— “I’m not confused, Eleanor.”
Julian reached out and touched her cheek. The contact sent a jolt through her.
— “When I saw you on that stage, when I heard you sing… it wasn’t a deal. For the first time in my life, I felt something real.”
— “Julian, the contract…” she whispered.
He leaned in. Eleanor froze. Her mind screamed to pull away, to remember it was all a sham, that in eleven months she’d be gone. But her heart—her treacherous heart—leaned in. Their lips met. It wasn’t a polite kiss for the cameras. It was hungry, desperate. It was the release of weeks of adrenaline and hidden attraction. Julian kissed her like he wanted to consume her. And Eleanor kissed him back with all the passion of an opera diva. For a moment, the lie vanished—there was only them.
But the moment was shattered by a ringing phone. Julian pulled away, breathing hard, his forehead resting against hers.
— “Ignore it,” Eleanor whispered, her pulse racing.
— “I have to answer.”
Julian groaned and pulled out his phone. Looking at the screen, he turned to stone.
— “What happened?” Eleanor asked, sensing the change.
— “It’s Arthur,” Julian said in a flat voice. “He says the law firm where our prenuptial contract was kept was broken into.”
The blood drained from Eleanor’s face.
— “The contract is gone,” Julian said, looking at her with horror. “Someone stole the original. The one that lists the payouts, the fake dates—everything that proves this marriage is a fraud.”
— “Isabella,” Eleanor breathed.
— “If this gets to the press or my grandmother,” Julian gripped his phone until his knuckles were white, “I lose the company. And you’ll look like a gold digger hired to marry me.”
— “The wedding is in two days,” Eleanor said. Panic was rising. “What do we do?”
Julian looked at her. The softness was gone, replaced by the ruthless businessman. But this time, he wasn’t fighting against her.
— “We go on the offensive,” Julian vowed. “She wants to ruin the wedding. Let her try. But she’s forgetting one thing.”
— “What?”
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