Chapter 6: Trying to Flee?
1012 Words
The sudden commotion caused everyone nearby to turn and stare at Denny Jonson.
Eleanor swiftly rose to help her up, fearing recognition might spark a scene.
Once reseated, Denny Jonson’s composure remained as fractured as a shattered mirror.
She gulped down her juice in one go, then fixed Eleanor with a gaze sharpened by volcanic intensity.
"What happened?"
Eleanor hesitated, then spilled the entire truth to her friend.
Upon hearing it, Denny felt a thunderbolt of realization c***k through her skull.
"Eleanor Voss! Are you an i***t?"
"Do you think a man like Lan Bowen—a walking hurricane in human form—lets you walk away just because you snap your fingers?"
"For some nobody like Ella Taylor, why? Even if you’d done nothing, Lan wouldn’t spare her a glance!"
Eleanor’s voice frayed like worn silk. "I didn’t think he’d actually take the bait. I’ve worked beside him for a year—he’s never glanced at a woman."
Denny’s almond eyes widened, twin moons eclipsed by disbelief. "And yet here we are! How many times?"
"Just... this morning, last night, the night before... maybe a dozen?"
Darkness encroached Denny’s vision, as if ink bled across the sun. "Holy s**t! Lan Bowen treats you like a disposable rag—no wonder you needed a doctor!"
"Quit. Now. Join my father’s company. Or—" Her words sharpened into daggers. "Use your inheritance to start that design studio. I’ll fund the gaps myself."
Eleanor’s lips pressed into a bloodless line.
Resignation had crossed her mind—but would Lan Bowen ever release his grip?
"I’ll think—"
"Stop thinking!" Denny’s voice quivered with urgency: "If this continues, birth control pills will poison you to death!"
Cough. Contraceptive toxicity—now there’s a novel epitaph.
Denny’s next words struck like scalpels: "If he cared, he’d use protection. Not force pills down your throat."
Eleanor nodded, her voice a hollow echo. "I know. To him, I’m less than human."
"And why the hell did you return his 400k? Since when do we refuse free money?!" Denny’s fury burned hotter than a supernova.
Staring at Eleanor’s delicate face—a face even her aloof brother coveted—Denny seethed.
If her brother learned of this, he’d detonate on the spot.
"Oh, Eleanor... Hewitt’s returning."
Eleanor’s dull eyes ignited like struck flint. "Hewitt’s coming back?"
Hewitt Jonson, Denny’s brother, had been dispatched abroad by their father to expand the Jonson empire.
With the overseas branch now thriving under reliable management, his return loomed imminent.
Hewitt had loved Eleanor for years—a fact lost on her emotionally tone-deaf friend.
He’d forbidden Denny from revealing his feelings, leaving the tension to fester.
"Quit," Denny urged, her tone softer now. "Become Hewitt’s secretary. Start your studio. Anything beats dying in Lan Bowen’s bed."
"A man who owns the shadows? If you die beneath him, he’ll vanish your corpse like smoke."
A glacial shiver raced down Eleanor’s spine, cold sweat beading her forehead.
"Okay," she whispered.
…………
Returning to the office post-lunch, Eleanor murmured to Hannah Smith: "Is Mr. Bowen in?"
"Yes. Ate lunch inside. Never emerged."
"Alone?"
Hannah nodded. "Why, Eleanor?"
"I’m resigning."
"What?!"
Entering Lan’s office, Eleanor found him reclining on the private lounge’s sofa, eyes closed.
She gathered his lunchware from the coffee table—a ritual perfected over her year as his personal secretary.
She knew his culinary preferences like musical notes, selecting seasonal ingredients with symphonic precision.
Hence, never once had Lan flung a meal in disgust.
She deliberately slowed her movements, but Lan remained dormant.
Forget it. Try later.
As she turned to leave, Lan’s hand clamped around her wrist like a steel trap.
"Speak," he commanded, eyes opening.
"Nothing, Mr. Bowen."
"Speak."
"Truly, nothing."
His laugh was arctic. "Miss Voss lingers, eyes darting like a trapped sparrow... yet nothing?"
Eleanor retreated, clutching the dishes. "I... wish to resign."
Danger flashed in Lan’s gaze—a panther spotting prey.
"Why?"
"I studied architecture. Want to start a design studio—"
"Who enabled this?" His voice could freeze magma.
"What?"
"Who. Enabled. This?"
"I found affordable office space—"
"Address. I’ll buy the building."
"..." Words died in Eleanor’s throat. Such whims were Lan’s specialty.
"Miss Voss," he purred, "do you believe I’d let your studio bloom in my city?"
The words detonated in Eleanor’s skull, scattering her resolve to ash.
Why won’t he let go?
"Leave. Send my travel itinerary."
DefLance surged—a rare spark. "Mr. Bowen, release me! I’ve suffered workplace injuries!"
Lan’s smirk curled like smoke. When he smiled thus, doom followed.
"Oh? Show me these... injuries."
Before she reacted, he yanked her into his lap, flipping her beneath him.
His grip on her wrists felt tectonic.
Eleanor thrashed, but the man above might as well have been carved from marble.
"Sir—this is the office!"
"And where was your propriety," he hissed, "when your hands wandered here?"
Her skirt rode up, revealing pale limbs that made Lan’s Adam’s apple convulse.
What began as intimidation now raged into hunger—a wildfire he couldn’t quench.
Eleanor bit her lip until blood threatened, eyes glazing with unshed tears.
In Lan Bowen’s world, she wasn’t permitted humanity.
"What if," she dared, "I skip the pills? Get pregnant?"
Threatening me? Amusement lit his face. "Believe you could keep what I discard?"
A knock. "Sir—time for the consulate," called John Wood.
Lan rose. Eleanor yanked down her skirt, smoothing hair as John entered.
Grabbing the dishes, she fled—but not before John glimpsed the crimson marks on her neck and tear-traced cheeks.
"See?" Lan adjusted his tie.
"See what, sir?"
"Nothing. You’ve seen enough."
John stiffened.
Was the CEO acknowledging his affair with Eleanor? And her clear distress...
In seven years as Bowen Group’s head—from 22 to 29—Lan Bowen had never touched a woman.
Until now.
"Discretion guaranteed, sir."
"Good." Lan lit a cigarette, staring through the window as if it framed his next conquest.
Run, Eleanor Voss?
His smile turned feral.
Dream on.
- Writer
