Chapter 21 – Eleanor
The wine was supposed to dull the sharp edges of disappointment, but three glasses in, all it had accomplished was making everything feel raw and exposed.
I sat curled in the leather chair by our bedroom window, my sketchbook balanced on my knees, trying to channel my hurt into something productive instead of destructive.
The show had been perfect. Better than perfect. Orders were already pouring in, fashion bloggers were calling it “a triumph of contemporary design,” and Chicago’s social elite were suddenly very interested in being associated with Eleanor Voronov’s brand.
But the one person whose presence would have meant everything had been notably absent.
My pencil moved across the page in angry strokes, sketching out designs that looked more like weapons than clothing. Sharp angles, aggressive lines, the kind of fashion that could cut someone who got too close. Fitting, considering my current mood.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made my spine stiffen.
I didn’t look up when the door opened, didn’t acknowledge the familiar weight of his presence filling the space.
Let him wonder why his wife was giving him the cold shoulder.
Let him figure out for himself that some things mattered more than whatever shadowy business had kept him away.
“Eleanor.”
I kept sketching. A sleeve that looked like a blade. A neckline that suggested violence.
“The show was incredible. Every review I’ve read calls it a masterpiece.”
“How would you know? You weren’t there.”
The hurt in my voice was sharper than I’d intended, cutting through the air between us like broken glass. I hated how much his absence had affected me, hated that I still craved his approval and support despite everything I’d accomplished on my own.
Maxim was quiet for a moment, and I could feel him studying me, probably trying to calculate the best approach to defuse the situation. Good fucking luck with that. I was past the point where pretty words and strategic apologies could fix what was broken.
“I particularly liked the sheer silk piece from your evening collection. The one with blood-red beadwork along the neckline. Very bold choice, using garnet stones to create that gradient effect.”
My head whipped around so fast I nearly dropped my sketchbook. He was leaning against the doorframe, still in his dark clothes, his gray eyes reflecting that familiar smirk that suggested he knew something I didn’t.
“What did you just say?”
“The silk piece. With the beadwork.” He pushed off from the doorframe, moving toward me with that predatory grace that made my pulse quicken despite my anger. “The way you designed the stones to catch the light, to look like actual drops of blood. It was stunning.”
“How the fuck do you know about that piece?”
He was close enough now that I could smell his cologne, could see the slight stubble along his jaw that meant he’d been working late. Close enough that every instinct I had was screaming at me to close the distance between us, to forget my anger and wrap myself around him like I always did.
Instead, I gripped my wine glass tighter and glared at him.
“Answer me, Maxim.”
He knelt beside my chair, his expression shifting from smug to something softer, more genuine. His knuckles brushed against my cheek, and despite everything, I found myself leaning into the touch.
“I was there,” he said quietly. “In the shadows, but I was there.”
The words hit me like ice water. “What?”
“I watched your entire show, Eleanor. Every moment, every design, every second of your triumph. You were magnificent.”
“But you said….” I stared at him, confusion replacing anger as my brain tried to process this information. “You said you couldn’t come. You said business was more important.”
“I said I couldn’t attend openly. There’s a difference.”
“Why?” The question came out as barely a whisper. “Why the secrecy? Why make me think you’d chosen work over supporting me?”
Maxim’s expression grew serious, and I caught a flash of something that looked like guilt in his eyes. He stood up, pacing to the window and staring out at the city lights below.
“Promise me something first.”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t get shocked or sad about what I’m about to tell you.”
Ice formed in my stomach. Whatever he was about to say, whatever truth he’d been hiding, I already knew I wasn’t going to like it.
“Maxim….”
“Promise me, Eleanor.”
“I promise.”
He turned back to me, and the weight of whatever he was carrying was written across every line of his face.
“Your father was behind the car attack.”
The words didn’t register at first. They bounced off my consciousness like bullets off armor, too impossible to accept, too devastating to process.
“That’s not….” I shook my head, setting down my wine glass with hands that had started to tremble. “That’s not possible.”
“William Beaumont orchestrated the ambush that nearly killed you. He’s been working with our enemies, feeding them information, planning attacks designed to hurt me through you.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong, Eleanor. We have proof. Phone records, financial transactions, recorded conversations. Your father wants you dead.”
The last word hit me like a physical blow. I felt my breath leave my lungs, felt the world tilt sideways as the implications crashed over me like a wave.
“Why?” The word came out broken, barely audible.
“I don’t know yet. But there’s more.” Maxim moved back to me, kneeling beside my chair again. “Tonight, at your show. There were five assassins.”
“What?”
“Professional killers. Russian operatives. They were there to finish what the car attack started.”
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my sketchbook. “How do you know this?”
“Because I killed them.”
The casual way he said it, like he was discussing the weather instead of taking human lives, made something inside me crack. This was the world I’d married into. This was the reality of being Eleanor Voronov.
“That’s why you couldn’t attend openly,” I said, understanding flooding through me. “You were protecting me.”
“I’ve been protecting you since the moment I realized how much you meant to me. But tonight was different. Tonight, I had to make a choice between being your supportive husband and keeping you alive.”
Tears were rolling down my cheeks now, hot and angry and filled with every emotion I’d been trying to suppress. “My father wants me dead.”
“Yes.”
“The man who raised me, who taught me to ride a bike, who supposedly loved me. He wants me dead.”
“Eleanor….”
“Why?” I wiped at my face with the back of my hand, anger replacing shock as the full scope of the betrayal settled in. “What could I have possibly done to make him hate me that much?”
“I don’t think it’s about you specifically. I think you’re collateral damage in a larger game.”
“Collateral damage.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “That’s what you called me when you first kidnapped me. Now my own father sees me the same way.”
Maxim’s jaw tightened. “You’re not collateral damage to me. You never were, even when I tried to pretend otherwise.”
“But I am to him.”
“Yes.”
The simple confirmation broke something inside me. All those years of trying to earn his love, of working harder and achieving more in the desperate hope that someday he’d look at me with pride instead of indifference. All of it had been pointless. Worse than pointless. He’d been planning my death.
“There’s something else you need to know,” Maxim continued. “This conspiracy goes deeper than just your father. We’ve identified other players, other threats. This isn’t over.”
“Who else?”
“We’re still investigating. But Eleanor, until we understand the full scope of what we’re dealing with, you’re not safe. None of us are.”
I stared at him, this man who’d risked everything to protect me, who’d chosen to shadow my biggest professional triumph instead of celebrating it with me because keeping me alive mattered more than appearances.
“You should have told me.”
“Would it have changed anything? Would knowing that assassins were targeting you have made your show better? Would the fear have improved your designs?”
He was right, and I hated him for being right. But more than that, I hated that my father’s betrayal made Maxim’s original kidnapping seem almost gentle by comparison. At least when Maxim had taken me, it had been strategic. Calculated. When my father tried to kill me, it was personal.
“I need answers,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I need to understand why he hates me enough to want me dead.”
“We’ll find out.”
“No.” I stood up abruptly, my sketchbook falling to the floor as determination replaced despair. “I already know where to start.”
“Eleanor….”
“My mother. She’s been lying to me about something, hiding something that she says will change everything between us. I saw her with Garrison yesterday, holding hands like lovers, and when I called her she lied about where she was.”
“You think your mother knows why Beaumont wants you dead?”
“I think my mother knows a lot of things she’s never told me. And it’s high time I started asking the right questions.”
Maxim studied my face, probably cataloging the shift from hurt confusion to cold determination. “This could be dangerous. If your mother is involved in whatever game Beaumont is playing….”
“Then I need to know before someone else tries to put a bullet through my head.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” I shook my head firmly. “This is family business. The kind of conversation that only happens between mother and daughter.”
“Eleanor, if you’re walking into a trap….”
“Then I’ll handle it the way a Voronov woman handles traps. With intelligence, courage, and enough fire to burn down anyone who threatens her family.”
I moved toward him, closing the distance between us until I was close enough to see the concern in his eyes, close enough to feel the tension radiating from his body.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For protecting me tonight. For being there even when I thought you weren’t. For choosing my life over my feelings.”
“Always.”
“But next time, tell me the truth from the beginning. I’m not fragile, Maxim. I don’t need to be protected from reality.”
“Noted.”
I rose on my toes, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that tasted like wine and promises and the kind of desperate love that could survive anything.
“I love you,” I whispered against his mouth.
“I love you too.”
“Good. Because tomorrow I’m going to confront my mother about whatever secrets she’s been keeping. And depending on what she tells me, we might need to reevaluate everything we think we know about William Beaumont and why he wants his daughter dead.”
“What are you thinking?”
I pulled back, meeting his eyes with the kind of certainty that came from finally understanding the shape of the puzzle I’d been trying to solve my entire life.
“I’m thinking that maybe William Beaumont doesn’t want his daughter dead. Maybe he wants to kill someone else’s daughter who just happens to be living in his house.”
The implications hung in the air between us, dangerous and terrible and, suddenly, horribly plausible.
I was going to find out if the man I’d spent my life trying to love was actually my father at all .