Billionaire Mogul's Forbidden Downfall

Chapter 3: Give us a chance?

After work, Eleanor Voss was packing up her things."Eleanor, want to go shopping?"

Today Lan Bowen had miraculously finished work on time, putting Hannah in exceptionally high spirits.

Eleanor smiled gently. "Not today. Something came up. Rain check?"

That morning, Elizabeth Lawrence—Sean’s mother—had messaged Eleanor, summoning her for dinner.

Since moving out, Eleanor could count her visits to that house on one hand. Elizabeth had never warmed to her, rarely bothering to ask how she fared.

She hadn’t seen Sean in ages either.

Eleanor hesitated, then decided to go.

After all, the Lawrences had raised her since she was eleven.

But first, she needed to visit the hospital.The pain had become unbearable.

…………

Metropolis General Hospital

The gynecologist finished the examination and began typing briskly. "Apply ointment morning and night.Take painkillers if it’s excruciating. Should heal in a couple days."

Eleanor fidgeted. "Um... where exactly do I apply it?"

The doctor shot her a glance. "Where does it hurt? Apply it there."

"But... the pain spreads below my abdomen..."

The woman sighed. "Young women these days—must you be so reckless during i*********e? Learn some restraint, or you’ll keep suffering the consequences—"

Eleanor flushed crimson. "Understood. Thank you."

Exiting the clinic, her mood darkened.

Restraint? As if I had any choice.

Should I accuse Lan Bowen of r**e?

Who’d believe me?

Though... one night with that godlike face for 200 grand? Not the worst trade.

Except the agony—that man turns feral between the sheets.

A voice sliced through her thoughts.

"Ms. Voss?"

She turned to find Ross Wilson leaning against the wall, tailored suit accentuating his athletic frame.

The heir to the Wilson medical dynasty smirked, eyes glinting like a panther spotting prey.

"Mr. Wilson,What a surprise."

"Here as visitor... or patient?" His gaze drifted to the gynecology sign.

Eleanor’s neck burned. "Just a checkup. Mr. Bowen’s waiting at Metropolis Hotel. Excuse me."

She hurried off, missing Ross’s wolfish grin as he pushed into the exam room.

"Dr. Svenson, what was that beauty here for?"

"What else? Hyperactive s*x life. Uterine spasms. Vaginal tearing."

Ross whistled. "Damn! Who’s the animal?"

…………

NIKI Nightclub, 6rd Floor

Strobe lights fractured the haze of cigar smoke and champagne spray. On the VIP mezzanine, Lan Bowen’s black shirt clung to defined muscles as he swirled his Bordeaux.

Jett Hemmer clinked glasses with him. "My club’s petty cash next to your empire, eh?"

The Hemmers ruled Metropolis’ hospitality scene—their golden "H" stamped on every luxury hotel.

Ross sauntered over, lighting a cigarette. "Saw someone interesting at the hospital."

Lan kept drinking.

Jett rolled his eyes. "Spit it out, Ross. Since when does Lan care about your conquests?"

Ross leaned in. "Guess who came crawling to gynecology? Your pristine little secretary."

Lan’s glass halted mid-air.

"Her cherry picker’s been overworked." Ross blew smoke rings. "Uterus throwing tantrums, flesh torn up—looked like she’d wrestled a barbed wire dildo."

Jett’s jaw dropped.

Lan’s knuckles whitened around the crystal stem.

"Who’s the lucky stallion?" Ross grinned. "Don’t tell me it’s y—"

The Romanée-Conti bottle exploded against marble. Burgundy rivers seeped into the $50k PersLan rug.

"f*****g waste!" Jett groaned.

Ross gaped. "Holy s**t. It was you?"

Lan stood abruptly, storm-dark eyes locking on Jett. "Send a woman to my suite."

"You? Since when—"

"Do it."

As Lan vanished into the neon glare, Ross muttered, "Is he dying? Last meal of p***y?"

Jett crushed his cigar. "Keep talking, and you’ll be the first to die."

…………

The housekeeper ushered Eleanor inside where Elizabeth Lawrence descended like a vulture spotting carrion.

"Eleanor! Finally!" The woman's talon-like grip seized Eleanor's wrist.

Time had carved canyons into Elizabeth's face.

Without her signature crimson lipstick, the dowager's sallow skin sagged like melted wax, eye sockets hollowed from financial anxieties.

"Work keeps me busy." Eleanor's smile could frost champagne.

She knew the drill.

Countless nights she'd overheard teenage Sean whining through thin walls: "Why must I marry this charity case? We're not medieval peasants!"

Elizabeth's poisoned whispers always followed: "Patience, darling. We'll find you proper society matches."

The car crash that orphaned eleven-year-old Eleanor had been a windfall for the Lawrences. Her father's dying breath gifted them controlling shares in Bowen Group through his lawyer—blood money to raise his daughter.

Now Steven Lawrence's empire teetered on collapse. Desperation oozed from the chandeliers.

At the dining table, Steven rose with practiced charm. "Eleanor. How long has it been?"

"Uncle." Her gaze flickered to Sean slouching over his phone. The golden boy offered a curt nod.

Platters of her childhood favorites appeared—braised pork belly, chrysanthemum fish.

Bile rose in Eleanor's throat. These were the same dishes servants shoveled into her in the kitchen nook while the family dined al fresco.

The charade shattered when Elizabeth pounced. "Seeing anyone?"

"No, Aunt."

"Perfect!" Elizabeth's crow's feet deepened. "Sean's available too. You two were practically—"

Steven coughed pointedly. "The Bowen Group must keep you busy, eh?"

Ah. There it was.

Sean suddenly stood, steak knife clattering. "Walk with me."

Moonlight revealed what daylight concealed—the gangly boy had morphed into Adonis.

Yet Eleanor only saw the teenager who'd laughed when school bullies shredded her textbooks.

"You know why we're doing this." Sean's throat bobbed.

"Give us a chance?"