The CEO’s Unspoken Love (Eleanor and Derek) novel Chapter 155

Chapter 155

Derek POV

I stood frozen on the sidewalk outside Blue Bottle Coffee, Olivia’s words still echoing in my head like a death knell. The January wind cut through my cashmere coat, but I barely felt it. Boston’s evening traffic continued around me-car horns blaring,

pedestrians rushing past-yet I remained motionless, as if rooted to the spot by the weight of what I’d just heard.

She had swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills in her bathroom.”

The sentence replayed in my mind, each word striking with the force of a physical blow. My breath formed white clouds in the fagid

air as I struggled to process Olivia’s revelation. Eleanor-my Eleanor-had tried to kill herself. Because of me.

I shook my head violently, as if the physical motion could somehow dislodge Olivia’s words from my consciousness. It couldn’t be

true. Eleanor was always the strongest person I knew-resilient, determined, quietly powerful in her own unassuming way. Even

when I’d treated her with cold indifference, she had remained dignified, her spine straight, her eyes clear, never once showing how

deeply I was hurting het.

But that was just it, wasn’t it? She never showed it. I never saw it because I never bothered to look.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I had demanded in the cafe, my voice raw.

Olivia’s response had been cutting in its simplicity: “You really think she’d want you to know? You left her and went to London,

Derek. For months, you didn’t even call.”

My breath came in short, painful bursts as I hailed a cab, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped my phone. The city lights

blurred around me as the taxi pulled away from the curb. I needed proof. I needed to know if Olivia was telling the truth or just

trying to manipulate me into staying away from Eleanor.

“Beacon Hill,” I instructed the driver, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. The delayed onset of shock, perhaps.

Our house-technically still my house, though I rarely spent time there since returning from London-stood silent and dark against

the night sky. I fumbled with the keys, a strange sense of trespassing washing over me despite legally owning the property.

The door swung open to reveal the immaculate interior, maintained by Mrs. Hughes who came twice a week to clean. The place

smelled of lemon polish and emptiness. No flowers. Eleanor had always kept fresh arrangements in every room when she lived here.

The contrast between then and now felt like a physical representation of what I had lost.

If Eleanor truly became depressed because of me, there must be evidence somewhere, I muttered to myself, switching on lights as

I moved through the house.

I took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for the master bedroom. Even during our marriage, I’d seldom ventured into

Eleanors personal space. We had maintained separate sides of the bedroom-an arrangement I had insisted upon, claiming I needed

2

1/3

14:2

Chapter 155

4754

my own space. In reality, I had been terrified of getting too close, of caring too much. Now, I stood at the threshold of her domain,

hesitating briefly before stepping in.

The room was exactly as she had left it, preserved like a museum exhibit. Mrs. Hughes had strict instructions never to rearrange

Eleanor’s belongings. Her reading glasses still sat on the nightstand beside a dog-eared copy of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. The sight

of them made my chest tighten with an emotion I couldn’t name.

Her nightstand drawers were the logical place to start: The top drawer contained nothing unusual-a sleep mask, the poetry book’s bookmark, hand cream that smelled like lavender. The middle drawer held stationery and pens, neatly arranged. But when I pulled

open the bottom drawer, my heart nearly stopped.

There they were. At least five orange prescription bottles, all with Eleanor’s name printed on the labels. Sertraline. Venlafaxine. Escitalopram. Names I recognized from business dealings with pharmaceutical companies. Antidepressants. All opened, all partially used. Evidence of her trying different medications, struggling to find something that worked. Some dated back to just a month after

I’d left for London.

“Fuck, I whispered, sinking onto the edge of the bed, the bottles clutched in my trembling hands. The plastic felt cold against my

palm, each one representing weeks or months of silent suffering.

It was true. All of it. While I was building my empire in London, attending glamorous parties, possibly even flirting with others, Eleanor had been here, in this house, suffering so deeply she’d tried to end her life. And I hadn’t known. Hadn’t cared enough to check on her beyond the occasional obligatory call that I’d treated like another business transaction to be completed.

A memory surfaced-our first wedding anniversary. Eleanor had seemed different that day. Quieter. Paler. When I’d asked if she was feeling well, she’d blamed seasonal allergies. I had accepted the explanation without question, relieved not to deal with anything more complicated, and promptly left for a business dinner, leaving her alone with a hastily purchased gift I’d had my assistant

select.

Had she already been depressed then? Had she been silently crying out for help while I remained oblivious, focused only on myself?

The late-winter Boston tide of remorse washed over me, nearly choking me with its intensity.

The realization cut through me like a blade of ice. I had to find her. Now.

My car tore through the Boston streets, the engine’s growl matching the roar in my head. I tried Eleanor’s cell repeatedly, but each

call went straight to voicemail. Her soft, measured voice asking me to leave a message was torture. I found myself listening to it

over and over, just to hear her speak.

Come on, Eleanor. Pick up, I muttered, tapping the steering wheel impatiently at a red light. The streets were crowded with

evening traffic, every delay fueling my growing anxiety.

Four Seasons Florals on Newbury Street was my first stop, but the shop was dark, closed for the night. I parked haphazardly, not

caring if I got a ticket, and ran to the door. I pressed my face against the glass, irrationally hoping to see her inside, arranging

flowers with that serene expression she wore when working with plants. But there was only darkness, the silhouettes of flowers

barely visible in the moonlight filtering through the windows.

O

2

2/3

155

I whispered against the cold glass, my breath fogging the surface. “Where are you?’

iments

5

Write Comments

S SHARE

00

2

107

3/3

The CEO’s Unspoken Love