Chapter 4

Eleanor POV:

A woman's scream. It was raw, desperate. My first thought was to keep walking. But the sound snagged something deep inside me, something that still recognized true fear. I tightened my grip on my purse strap and moved, not towards the sound, but towards the edge of the alley, my senses alert.

Three hulking figures surrounded a smaller form. One had her pinned against the grimy wall, his hand clamped over her mouth. Another was fumbling with her bag. The third just watched, a cruel smile on his face. My blood ran cold, then hot. This kind of injustice, I couldn't ignore.

I moved fast, a blur of calculated aggression. I slammed my elbow into the watcher' s gut, spinning him around, then delivered a swift kick to the knee. He crumpled with a yelp. The one grappling with the bag turned, startled, and I used his momentary confusion to land a precise jab to his throat. He gasped for air, clutching his neck. The biggest one, still holding the woman, finally registered what was happening. He let go of his victim and charged, a guttural roar escaping his lips.

He was big, but slow. I ducked under his wild swing, pivoted, and drove my knee hard into his groin. He howled, doubling over. A quick uppercut to his jaw finished the job. He dropped like a sack of bricks.

I stood there, panting slightly, assessing the damage. Three down. I turned to the whimpering woman, who was now huddled against the wall, trembling. "Are you okay?" I asked, my voice rough.

She looked up, her eyes wide with terror, then recognition. It was Hayleigh. My stomach dropped. The universe, in its infinite cruelty, was playing a twisted joke.

I swallowed down the surge of complicated emotions. Disgust, anger, a flicker of bewildered concern. "Get up," I said, my voice flat. I took off my jacket, a sharp, tailored blazer, and draped it over her trembling shoulders, covering her torn blouse. "You need to get out of here. And call the police."

I didn't wait for her response. I simply walked away, leaving her amidst the groaning thugs. The irony wasn't lost on me. I saved the woman who had effectively ruined my life.

By midnight, I was at the precinct, giving my statement. The officers, who knew me from my club days, were surprised to see me, even more so when they heard who the victim was. When I emerged, the early morning light painting the sky in sickly shades of grey, Blake was waiting for me. His face was a thundercloud.

He lunged, grabbing my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. "What the hell is wrong with you, Eleanor? Are you trying to kill her? First the car, now this?" His voice was a low growl, filled with raw accusation. "You used to be so... honorable. What happened to you?"

My breath hitched. Honorable. He dared to speak of honor? My vision swam, a red haze behind my eyes. "What happened to me, Blake? You happened. You and your naive little innocent happened." The words were out before I could stop them, bitter and sharp.

He recoiled as if struck. "She told me everything. How you tried to hit her with your car. How you attacked her in the alley. How could you, Eleanor? She's vulnerable, she just lost our baby!"

The accusation hit me like a physical blow. Our baby. My baby, the one I lost alone, the one he didn't even know existed. My fertility, gone. My past, now twisted into his narrative of my villainy.

A cold, hard laugh escaped my lips. "Lost our baby, Blake? Did she tell you that? Did she tell you she tried to run me off the road first? Did she tell you she' s been systematically destroying everything we built?" My voice rose, raw with a pain that felt too deep to contain. "And what about the baby I lost, Blake? The one you never even knew about? The one that cost me everything?"

He stared at me, his face pale, confusion warring with anger. "What are you talking about?"

"It doesn't matter," I choked out, pulling my arm free. "You never listened then, and you won't listen now. You made your choice, Blake. You chose the innocent little lamb over the 'too much' woman. Live with it."

We parted ways, two broken halves of a shattered whole, the chasm between us wider than ever. The media, fueled by Hayleigh's tearful testimony and Brock's vengeful whispers, painted me as a monster. "Eleanor Fisher: From Empire Builder to Vengeful Ex."

A few weeks later, at a high-profile charity gala, an event I still had to attend for appearances, Blake arrived hand-in-hand with Hayleigh. She wore a delicate, flowing gown, looking every inch the fragile, ethereal artist. He gazed at her with an adoration that was a punch to my gut. Whispers followed them, admiring their "love story," their resilience. "He's so devoted," I heard someone coo. "He'd do anything for her."

My friend, Marco, who had stuck by me, moved to confront them, but I placed a hand on his arm. "Don't," I said, my voice tight. "It's not worth it."

Hayleigh caught my eye, and for a fleeting moment, a flicker of fear crossed her face. She quickly hid it, burying her head into Blake's shoulder. He looked at me, a complex mixture of pity and accusation in his eyes, then tightened his arm around her protectively. The whispers intensified. "Poor Hayleigh, so afraid of Eleanor."

I excused myself, needing a moment to breathe. I headed to the ladies' room, splashing cold water on my face. As I pushed open the stall door, Hayleigh was there, leaning against the counter, a triumphant smirk on her face.

"Eleanor," she purred, her voice sweet, venomous. "I'm so glad I caught you. I have some wonderful news." She touched her stomach, a delicate, possessive gesture. "Blake and I are expecting. And we thought, since you're so good with children, perhaps you'd like to be the godmother?"

My heart stopped. My own lost child, the secret I carried, the permanent sterility I endured. Her words were a cruel twist of the knife. I remembered Blake' s joyful plans, the name we' d whispered under starry skies. A name that now, I knew, Hayleigh would undoubtedly claim as her own invention.

"We're thinking of naming her..." Hayleigh paused, letting the suspense build, her eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure. "Hope. Blake always loved that name."

Hope. The name we'd chosen for our daughter, years ago, before everything shattered. The world went silent around me.