Chapter 7: Battle Scars
779 Words
Eleanor's phone buzzed with Denny's text as night swallowed the city: "Did the devil release you?"
"Not yet."
"f*****g hell! Told you he wouldn’t let go!"
The screen dimmed.
Eleanor pressed her forehead to cold glass, tears carving salt trails.
Mom... Dad... Their cemetery plot flashed behind closed lids—the phantom weight of her mother's arms, the gasoline-scented crush of metal.
Knuckles rapped marble.
Lan loomed over her desk, glacial eyes catching her tear-stained face.
A fissure cracked through his glacial composure.
"Sir." She swiped at her cheeks. "The revised itinerary..."
"Email suffices." His voice grated oddly.
As she gathered her purse, words tumbled from him like rogue asteroids: "Dinner."
Her head snapped up. "Pardon?"
"Nothing."
The Rolls-Royce purred toward Bowen Manor. Lan's knuckles whitened against the window. Suburban lights blurred into constellations mirroring Eleanor's neck bruises.
Grand iron gates parted, revealing a verdant kingdom—centuries-old oaks standing sentry over rose labyrinths. Maintenance costs alone could fund small nations.
Serena Bowen's teacup clinked. "Finally gracing us?"
"Mother."
Her diamond-cold gaze dissected him. "Legs."
He uncrossed them. Even titans kneel to their creators.
Grandfather Bowen barged in, cheeks ruddy from outrage. "That Taylor girl—"
"Bought her scandalous headlines," Lan cut in. Eleanor's slapped face burned his retinas.
"Damn you!" The old man thundered. "Our lineage—"
"—ends with me?" Lan peeled an orange, juice staining his surgeon-clean hands.
Serena's gasp sliced the tension. A tube rolled from his pocket—Gynecological Use Only blazing crimson.
"Wounded equipment?" Her arch lifted.
"Mother."
"Play carefully, darling."
The dying sunlight gilded Bowen Syndicate's executive floor when Ross Wilson swaggered into view, his white Tom Ford suit clinging to athletic curves like liquid mercury. Leaning against Hannah Smith's desk, he drawled, "Still Manhattan's finest view, Ms. Smith."
Hannah's smile could frost champagne. "Flattery suits you poorly, Mr. Wilson. Eleanor's the stunner here."
Eleanor kicked Hannah's ankle under the desk—traitor—before offering diplomatic refuge: "Mr. Bowen's finalizing documents. Perhaps the lounge..."
"Rather watch the scenery." Ross's gaze lingered on Hannah's neckline.
"Marriage plans?" His fingers drummed mahogany. "Biologically speaking, 25's prime breeding—"
The intercom shattered the torture. "Ms. Voss. Now."
Lan stood framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, his tailored shirt stretching across shoulders that could anchor skyscrapers. Eleanor's fingers betrayed her—trembling slightly as she adjusted his Brioni suit.
"Stunned by my charm?" Lan's voice dripped arsenic.
"Merely appreciating Renaissance proportions." Her saccharine tone masked revulsion.
His hand snaked around her waist—click—the sound of her bra clasp surrendering. "Attend the gala with me."
"Surely Miss Taylor—"
The lace slid down her arms. "Your undergarments make adequate collateral."
Eleanor's gasp lodged in her throat. So much for the celibate tycoon legend—this was pure mafia courtship.
"Fine!" She wrestled the silk, fingers fumbling.
Lan's chuckle vibrated against her spine as he re-fastened the clasp with surgical precision. "Six o'clock sharp." A velvet box landed in her palms—his parting kiss leaving phantom brands on her lips.
Hannah gaped at Eleanor's swollen mouth. "Survived?"
"Barely." Eleanor stared at the diamond-encrusted gown. Denny was right—Lan Bowen would be the death of her.
The Metropolis Hotel ballroom shimmered like a dragon's hoard—walls draped in spider-silk brocade threaded with golden lilies, crystal chandeliers scattering light like fallen constellations across baroque ceiling carvings.
Eleanor's stilettos sank into PersLan rugs thicker than childhood trauma.
"Mr. Thompson," she nodded, cheeks aching from porcelain-doll smiles.
The oil magnate's gaze lingered on her pearl-white corset dress. "Champagne, Ms. Voss?"
"She abstains." Lan's voice could frost hell.
Ross Wilson observed the spectacle, martini swirling. Manhattan's celibate king parading this wounded sparrow? Delicious. "Surviving the lion's den?" he murmured.
"Barely." Eleanor's migraine pulsed in time with her heels' bloody blisters. Three sleepless nights under Lan's... attention... had left her a marionette with frayed strings.
Across the room, Sean Lawrence's knuckles whitened around his glass.
The pearl-clad goddess laughing at Rothschild's joke wasn't the mouse who'd trailed him through high school hallways.
Memory flashed—her tear-streaked face begging for medicine he'd refused. Now her collarbone bore another man's crimson constellations.
In the ladies' room, Eleanor inspected war wounds. Foundation cracked over bite marks—Lan's brutal calligraphy. She was repainting lies when the door crashed open.
"Eleanor." Sean's grip branded her wrist. "You're mine."
"Your expired toy," she spat. "Remember? 'Die already'?"
His thumb found the hidden bruise behind her ear. "Whose teeth marked my territory?"
"Not yours." She wrenched free as Lan's glacier-cut voice sliced through:
"Ms. Voss."
The wolf in Brioni armor stood framed in golden light, eyes promising slow evisceration.
- Writer
