Chapter 2: No Undo Button
802 Words
The blow snapped Eleanor's head sideways.
Through ringing ears, she heard her own voice emerge eerily calm: "If I'm trash, what does that make the man who employs me?"
Ella drew back for another strike when an iron grip arrested her wrist mid-air.
Ian Bowen materialized like wrath incarnate.
"Which hand struck her? This one?"
His fingers tightened until bone creaked.
"Papa's company partners with yours!" Ella whimpered, her bravado crumbling.
Eleanor gripped Ian's forearm. "Sir, it's not worth—"
"Was. It. This. Hand." Each word dropped like a guillotine blade. Ella's wrist bloomed violent hues beneath his grip.
Memories of last night's desperate pleas flashed through Ian's mind—Eleanor's tear-streaked face, her broken whimpers. With a snarl, he flung Ella away. "Scram."
The heiress stumbled, humiliation glistening in her tear-filled eyes. "You can't—"
"Security." Ian didn't glance at his assistant. "Terminate all Taylor Holdings contracts."
The office air hung heavy with aftermath. Eleanor slumped into her chair, her throbbing cheek and cramping abdomen forming a symphony of misery.
“Need Advil?” Hannah slid a paper cup toward her, water sloshing like a half-hearted peace offering.
Eleanor shook her head, pressing the chilled cup to her inflamed skin. “It’ll pass.”
Hannah’s chair squeaked as she leaned closer. “Since when do D-list celebs get to waltz in here like—”
“She’s Taylor Holdings’ princess. Entitlement’s her birthright.” The words tasted bitter. Eleanor dabbed at the corner of her mouth where copper lingered.
“Princess? More like bargain-bin Cinderella.” Hannah snorted. “Did you see Mr. Bowen’s face when he crushed her wrist? I swear I heard bones crack.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around the cup. Why had Ian intervened? Some twisted guilt over last night’s violation? The thought curdled her stomach.
Hannah studied Eleanor’s profile—the delicate arch of brows now furrowed, the rose-tinted slap mark blooming across porcelain skin. “You two go way back, don’t you?”
A noncommittal hum. Eleanor’s mind rewound to locker room taunts, stolen textbooks, Ella’s posse chanting “Trash girl” as they yanked her braids.
The finance minister’s exit shattered the moment. John Wood’s monotone cut through: “Mr. Bowen requires you.”
…………
Ian’s office reeked of leather and impending storm. He didn’t glance up from the contract he was eviscerating with red ink. “Closer.”
Eleanor approached like a condemned man to the gallows. “Sir?”
His gaze snapped to her cheek—the violent handprint, the split lip. Something dark flickered behind his steel-gray eyes. “Have PR bury Ella Taylor under trending hashtags.”
“Topic?”
“#CelebrityViolence.”
“That’s excessive!” The protest escaped before she could cage it.
Ian’s pen froze. “Did I request your opinion?”
Of course not. Ian Bowen didn’t do altruism. This was chess, not chivalry.
“Other instructions?”
“Morning-after pill?”
The question detonated like a flashbang.
Eleanor’s stilettos wobbled,“T-taken. No loose ends.”
He leaned back, predator’s smile glinting. “You called me a garbage collector earlier. When should I… collect my dues again?”
Her knees buckled. Again? The corporate monk who’d once fired an intern for adjusting his tie?
“Perhaps…” Her throat tightened. “I could return the money. Pretend last night—”
His hand shot out, fingers digging into her jaw. “You think my bed’s a revolving door?”
Tears blurred her vision as fresh pain erupted. Ian’s grip slackened abruptly.
That broken-doll look of hers—it clawed at something he’d buried deep.
“Out.” The word cracked like a whip.
…………
The restroom stall became her confessional. Eleanor slumped against the door, silent screams dissolving into heaving sobs.
Memories cascaded—parents’ coffin lilies, Sean Laurence’s mocking laughter, Ella’s triumphant smirk when caught in her childhood bed.
Eleven years old, clutching a stuffed rabbit at her parents’ funeral.
The Laurences’ “charity case.” Sean—golden boy, her pretend prince—discarding her for Ella’s crown of popularity.
High school hallways became gauntlets: gum in her hair, dead rats in her locker, Ella’s sycophants hissing “Orphan trash.”
Graduation day’s final betrayal—walking in on Sean and Ella tangled in her bedsheets—had been the grenade that shattered her foster life.
Years later, spotting Ella draped over Ian at a charity gala ignited this k******e mission.
If the socialite queen wanted the unattainable Bowen heir, Eleanor would steal him—a mayfly’s vengeance against a hurricane.
Last night proved the cost.
Now she stared at her reflection—smudged mascara, swollen lips, the scarlet handprint fading to sickly yellow.
No Ctrl-Z for lost innocence. No reset button for hearts cracked open.
Regret tasted like blood and salt.
- Writer
