Donovan leaned against the side of his Bentley, his face a thundercloud as Eleanore walked out of the grand entrance of the Sterling estate, pulling a small suitcase behind her.
"Is that all?" he asked, his voice laced with scorn as he looked at the single, modest bag.
"I don't take what isn't mine," Eleanore replied calmly, placing the suitcase in the trunk herself.
The drive was silent, the air inside the luxury car thick with unspoken resentment. He pulled up in front of a plain, three-story apartment building, a world away from the manicured lawns of the Sterling estate. This was where she had lived before him.
Eleanore got out, retrieved her luggage, and walked away without a word of goodbye.
Donovan watched her go, her back straight and unyielding. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring in the quiet street.
He drove back to the mansion. It was empty. The scent of white roses, a scent he had always taken for granted, was gone. The house felt sterile, lifeless.
The housekeeper, Maria, informed him that Miss Chanel York had paid a visit earlier that morning while he was at the office.
"Miss York spoke with the madam in the living room," Maria reported, her eyes downcast. "The madam had her bags packed by the time you returned."
Donovan understood immediately. The $50 million settlement wasn't just a cold calculation; Chanel’s visit had been the final straw that pushed Eleanore to demand the exit. He tried calling Chanel, but the call went straight to voicemail.
Meanwhile, in Eleanore's small apartment, her best friend Skylar White held her tight.
"You're right to leave that bastard!" Skylar fumed, her voice full of righteous anger. "You deserve so much better! Come on, I'm taking you out. We are not sitting here and moping."
Skylar dragged Eleanore to The Crimson Key, a new, painfully chic lounge downtown. The lights were low, the music a throbbing pulse. Skylar ordered them the strongest cocktails on the menu.
Eleanore barely sipped hers, her eyes vacant as she stared at the dance floor.
"Stop thinking about him," Skylar said, nudging her. "Look around. This place is full of hot young guys."
As if on cue, a figure appeared at the entrance that made Eleanore's stomach clench. Chanel York, a vision in a stunning red dress, clinging to the arm of a powerful film producer. She was holding court, a circle of admirers hanging on her every word.
Chanel spotted her. A flicker of triumph crossed her face. She deliberately steered her group towards their table.
"Well, well, if it isn't Mrs. Sterling," Chanel said, her voice dripping with mock surprise, just loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
She put a hand to her mouth in a parody of shock. "Oh, that's right. I forgot. You were kicked out."
Skylar started to rise, ready to fight, but Eleanore placed a restraining hand on her arm.
Eleanore stood up. She was shorter than Chanel in her heels, but somehow, she seemed to tower over her.
She picked up her drink, her eyes locking with Chanel's. A slow, cold smile touched her lips.
"You have a terrible memory, Miss York," Eleanore said, her voice smooth as silk. "But that's understandable. After all, you're just picking up my leftovers."
The words hung in the air, sharp and deadly. Chanel's smile froze on her face.
The people around them went silent, their eyes darting between the two women.
Chanel's face went from red to white. "What... what did you say?"
"I said," Eleanore took a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper only Chanel could hear, "does he still like it from behind?"
The color drained completely from Chanel's face. She looked as if she'd been struck.
At that exact moment, a cold, furious voice sliced through the air from behind them.
"Eleanore!"
It was Donovan.
