Chapter 7 That's Some Nerve

As soon as Victoria and the others had left, Eleanor immediately stood up, sidestepping Peter's outreached hand.

Clutching her phone, she apologized, "I'm sorry, Mr. Vaughn, for taking up your time."

Peter raised an eyebrow, perceptive as ever, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"My mother arranged today's meeting without my consent."

It all made sense now—the reason behind her distant attitude was clear; she was coerced into coming.

"Oh, I see," Peter said, rising up slowly and leaning against the dining table, a relaxed smirk lifting his gaze to her, "No worries."

Eleanor hadn't expected him to be so easygoing. She had prematurely judged him, assuming he was just another flippant playboy.

Just as she was about to apologize again, Peter jingled his car keys.

"At least let me drive you home. It wouldn't look good for me to let you go back alone late at night—what would people think of me?"

After a moment's thought, Eleanor nodded.

Eleanor Tower was an architectural marvel, with its gray tiles and white walls, ornate railings and flying eaves, the nighttime ambience making it all the more like a classic ink wash painting, exuding a tranquility and refinement that mere wealth couldn't replicate.

As Eleanor passed by a box, she overheard someone call out the name Aaron.

She looked up instinctively—it was one of the most exclusive VIP rooms, not just something money could secure, typically reserved for the elites of South City's Pyramid Apex.

This Eleanor Tower belonged to Aaron, and wherever he was, it had to be the best spot.

Wesley stepped out to answer a call, pulling open the door, and that was when Eleanor caught a glimpse of Aaron and the woman by his side.

Her breath hitched for a second.

Before she could look away, Aaron glanced her direction through the parted curtains, a smile lingering on his lips, while the woman next to him was laughing so hard she nearly collapsed onto his arm.
She was Aaron's betrothed.

So the dinner he mentioned, it was with her.
And she was the one who had just called out to Aaron.

Eleanor had whispered his name countless times in her heart, once even aloud in the heat of passion, but Aaron didn't like it. When she asked why, he didn't answer, instead coaxing her to call him "Daddy." And that was the last time she ever called him Aaron.

Only his close friends and family called him that, signaling just how fond Aaron was of his fiancée.

Wesley closed the door behind him, and the last image Eleanor caught was of that woman clinging to Aaron's arm, her face poised close to his.

Her heart kept pounding against her chestw, and then Wesley's voice snapped her back to reality, "Miss Patterson."

She nodded with bitterness , and turned to leave, brushing past Wesley without a word.

Wesley turned, his gaze settling on Peter's retreating back, a frown knitting his brows.

Peter insisted on driving Eleanor home, and unable to wriggle out of it, she blurted out the name of a residential building, claiming it was her place.

She was cautious, living alone; she wouldn't just reveal her address to any man, especially one she'd never see again.

All the way home, her mind replayed the woman leaning into Aaron, and his lack of resistance.

She reminded herself constantly that Aaron was no longer hers, they were just cousins as they had started out, his romance, his marriage—it was all none of her business now.

Still, she couldn't stop herself from thinking about him.

Really, Eleanor, this should be the end of it. Don't let people look down on you.

After getting out of the car and thanking Peter, she watched him drive off. Only when she was sure he was gone did she hail a taxi back to her residential building.

Once inside her apartment, she planned to call Victoria to declare she and Peter weren't a match, and to ask her not to bother setting her up anymore. But her phone was dead.

She'd just plugged it in to charge when the doorbell rang.

Half-expecting Victoria, ready to drag her out for mahjong, or perhaps orchestrating another rendezvous with Peter, having monitored her return—knowing her mother, it was very possible.

The thought irritated her.

She opened the door, only to find a decidedly masculine hand propped against the frame.

A thick wrist, a glimpse of a sinister black mamba tattoo.

Eleanor's heart skipped a beat—it was Black Mamba.
Peter's mocking grin sent a chill down her spine as a cold sweat broke across her back. Her mind raced with several thoughts; He knew she was lying to him, and he had even followed her.

She struggled to close the door.

But Peter wedged his foot in, and sneered. "Miss Patterson, how clever you are?" he taunted.

With one hand on the door, he pushed inside. The disparity in their physical strength was evident; Eleanor had no chance against him, and with a loud thud, the door slammed against the wall.

"What do you want? Please leave, or I'm calling the police," she demanded, remembering her phone was charging. Frantically, she grabbed the first thing she could from the entryway—a ceramic fortune cat.

Peter scoffed and made a swift move, seizing her wrist. The fortune cat smashed to the ground, shattering into pieces.

The door slammed shut behind him.

"Get out, get away from me!" Eleanor resisted, kicking and stomping, sending items from the entryway flying everywhere.

"Oh, what, you think a simple 'sorry' makes everything okay?" Peter panted, his anger palpable, "You think you're playing me for a fool?"

Eleanor struggled fiercely to break free, but Peter tightened his grip, yanking her into his embrace and encircling her slender waist.

She felt impossibly soft in his arms, even more pleasing to the touch than he had imagined.

"You should see how desperate your mother is to trade you off, still playing the 'Miss' card. I'm really giving you too much credit," he sneered.

Grasping the nape of her neck, Peter forced her head up, gazing at her blush-tinted face, which dazzled him. He lowered his head, about to steal a kiss.

Eleanor turned deathly pale, thrusting her head back with all her might, then, summoning her strength, she lunged at Peter.

"Ah!" He yelped in pain, reflexively releasing her.

Eleanor stumbled to the floor,, her vision fading to white. Dazed, she scrambled to her feet, bumping into the door, her trembling hands fumbling for the doorknob.

She had to escape, or she was doomed.

Just as she reached for the door, Peter surged toward her!

She had already shed her coat back home, revealing a form-fitting knit top underneath. With a sharp tug, Peter revealed swathes of her pale skin and rounded shoulders.

The blinding whiteness made Peter's eyes redden with desire. He lunged at her, pinning Eleanor against the door, ripping at her top from behind.

A sharp pain seared her neck—Peter's biting.

She couldn't even scream for help; his hand wrapped around from behind, covering her mouth.

The buzzing in her ears blurred the sounds around her, but she faintly heard the unbuckling of a belt.

Eleanor's pupils dilated, her face drained of color, her mind flooded with images, finally pausing on that other woman leaning toward Aaron.

As he reveled in the embrace, she was completely alone, with no one to save her.

Tears streamed down uncontrollably.