Chapter 5: Crimson Torment
735 Words
Post-shower, Eleanor requested leave. "An hour to change, sir?"
Lan nodded, already transformed back into Bowen Group’s CEO—suit armor in place.
Outside, Jett and Ross lurked like paparazzi.
"Ms. Voss!" Ross's grin turned feral. "How many rounds last night?"
Her soul left her body.
"Five." Lan materialized in the doorway. "Seven with this morning."
Ross choked. "f*****g hell, Bowen! Practicing for the s*x Olympics?"
"Shall we discuss Tuesday night's encore?"
Eleanor fled toward elevators, cheeks burning hotter than supernovae.
……
Eleanor hadn’t swallowed a drop of water all morning, her schedule tighter than a drumskin.
Years of extreme dieting had left her stomach as fragile as antique porcelain, and today’s skipped breakfast sharpened the dull ache beneath her ribs.
Yes—she’d stood like a forgotten statue while Lan Bowen devoured his breakfast at the Metropolitan Hotel.
No invitation to join. To him, Eleanor was merely a vessel for desire, unworthy of sharing his table.
Noticing her pallor, Hannah Smith leaned closer. "Eleanor, you okay?"
"Just hunger pangs," Eleanor lied, fingers flying across Lan’s travel itinerary.
Work like a mule by day, serve as his bedwarmer by night—no overtime pay, no compensation for bodily wear.
Was Eleanor Voss an i***t?
Her mind circled the 200 grand returned to Lan like vultures to carrion.
Hannah slid a caramel-scented cookie packet beneath the desk.
"Want one? Divine."
Eleanor’s smile bloomed like spring cherry blossoms. "Always."
As her hand hovered near her lips—
Knock-knock-knock.
A manicured hand drummed the desk. "Miss Voss! Snacking on company time?"
Eleanor looked up into the smirking face of a woman whose chestnut curls cascaded like Mediterranean kelp.
Oversized sunglasses framed a doll-like face, lips painted blood-red.
"None of your business," Eleanor scoffed, voice dripping with frost.
The woman ripped off her shades. "Oh-ho! Got balls of steel now?!"
Hannah gasped, hand clapped over her mouth. "Denny Jonson?!"
Indeed—Denny Jonson, rising star of cinema, now burning brighter than magnesium flame.
Eleanor pressed a finger to her lips. "When’d you get back? Why haunt my office?"
Denny tapped Eleanor’s cheek with her sunglasses. "Flew 14 hours. Came straight to check on my favorite damsel." Turning to Hannah, Eleanor explained: "My bestie, Denny Jonson."
Hannah’s eyes widened. "Your bestie’s a celebrity?! Does she know Ella Taylor slapped you yesterday? She could—"
"WHAT?!" Denny’s roar could’ve shattered crystal. "That harpy laid hands on you?!"
Eleanor dragged her toward the elevators. "Quiet! Aren’t you scared of Mr. Bowen?"
"Not his employee, not his problem."
They settled in a corner booth at a nearby bistro, Denny’s latest hit drama making anonymity impossible.
Between ordering, Denny pounced: "Explain Ella Taylor. Now."
Eleanor shrugged. "She came for Lan. I said he was in meetings. She took it... personally."
"Resource-thieving bitch." Denny whipped out her phone. "Calling Camilla."
Eleanor stayed her hand. "Let it die."
Denny’s glare screamed unacceptable.
Their friendship had begun in high school corridors—Denny, the Jonson Group heiress fresh from abroad; Eleanor, the quiet girl haunted by Sean Lawrence and Ella’s cruelty.
Maybe it was Marvel-inspired heroism, maybe pity for the lone cafeteria diner, but Denny had thrust chocolate at her one Valentine’s Day: "Eat. You’re too skinny."
Decades later, the bond remained unbroken.
As food arrived, Denny attacked her plate like a starved wolf.
Eleanor chuckled. "How long’s your fast been?"
"Two months for the role!" Denny mumbled through stuffed cheeks. "Wrap party’s my stomach’s Woodstock."
"You’ll trend if paparazzi catch this."
"Let them. Daddy’s PR team’s on retainer."
Denny suddenly froze, swallowing hard. "Guess who came groveling to Dad? Your dear Uncle Lawrence and that rat Sean."
Eleanor’s fork hesitated. "Borrowing money?"
"Bingo." Denny’s grin turned feral. "Dad wouldn’t toss coins into their bankruptcy black hole.
Threatened to remain unmarried if he did—give him an early grave."
Eleanor’s laughter sparkled... until shadows returned. "They summoned me recently."
Denny’s knife screeched against porcelain. "After your inheritance?"
"And Sean’s... proposal."
"Psychopath! You didn’t—"
"Would I lick the boot that kicked me?"
As Denny exhaled relief, Eleanor swept her hair into a ponytail—revealing crimson marks blooming like poisoned roses along her neck.
Clang! Denny’s fork fell.
"Eleanor. Your—"
Panicked, Eleanor loosened her hair, cheeks aflame.
"Who.Was. It?"
Preemptively clearing Denny’s cutlery, Eleanor whispered: "Don’t scream."
"What?"
"Lan Bowen. He’s... we’ve..."
CRASH!
Denny toppled backward, chair clattering like her shattered composure.
- Writer
