Chapter 9 She Belongs to the Quinn Family

Doctor had just completed a thorough examination of Eleanor. Pulling back the curtain, he saw a tall man standing in front of the sofa. The doctor took a deep breath before approaching with a nurse by his side.

This was the Quinn family's hospital, and Aaron, their forebearer and boss, was a familiar figure to the medical staff.

Yet this man, despite his young age, not even thirty, had taken the reins of the Quinn empire. His demeanor was commanding; an air of untouchability that had deterred many.

His facehad fallen as he had carried the woman in, a frightening presence to behold.

"Aaron," the doctor said, "Test results suggest that there are no physical injuries; it seems to be extreme mental stress that caused her to collapse from exhaustion."

Aaron responded with a curt "hm," as he glanced at Eleanor's disheveled face, her hair in disarray, tear stains on her cheeks.

The nurse had reapplied ointment to the cuts on her neck and hands and covered them with clean gauze.

Eleanor slept deeply, her breathing the only sign of life, undisturbed by the commotion.

Eleanor had always been cautious, a lack of security since childhood coloring her interactions. What or who had given her such a sense of safety that she could sleep without defenses?

Upon hearing Eleanor was fine, Grayson moved to take her away but was stopped by Wesley's intervention. "Mr. Grayson, Aaron hasn't spoken yet."

"What, does Eleanor's wellbeing need his approval?" Grayson's cold gaze swept over them.

"Yes," Wesley replied, respectful and serious, giving nothing away.

Grayson's temper flared, about to push Wesley aside, but was reminded, "The World Championships are in a week, Mr. Graysoni. Are you sure you want to risk injury with me? It could compromise your performance."

"Are you threatening me?"

Grayson's commitment to the competition was evident in his late-night practice at the venue; he was desperate for a gold medal to prove himself.

He flung his gloves aside, "Listen, even if you break my hand today, I'm taking Eleanor with me."

"Aaron, don't force me to speak harshly. You're getting engaged in a month. Don't ruin Eleanor's good name," Grayson warned.

He pointed to Eleanor, lying peacefully in her bed. The mere thought of her pain was distressing.

"You know how much she's hurting inside. Stop rubbing it in."
Grayson knew just how head over heels Eleanor was for Aaron—she had confided in him once her feelings began to blossom, and ever since then, he'd watched over her with a protective tenderness.

If she hadn't been so smitten with Aaron, Grayson would have thrown down with the guy in a heartbeat to defend his little sister's honor.

As Wesley tried to hold him back, Aaron strode over with his long legs, scooped Eleanor into his arms, and cradled her close.

Eleanor's gentle face nestled against his chest, utterly clueless about the commotion.

Aaron shot Grayson a cool glance over his shoulder, his voice a stern warning, "She's part of the Quinn clan. Cut it out with 'your Eleanor.'"

Irritated, Grayson was stifled by his words. So after all his concern, that was all Aaron took to heart!

He was about to whisk Eleanor away when Grayson blurted out in desperation, "Aaron, you—"

"Mr. Grayson, I assure you, Aaron would never harm Miss Patterson." Wesley said withi hiss grip on Grayson's wrist, casual yet forceful, holding him back without causing harm.

By the time Grayson broke free from Wesley, Aaron's car was already vanishing into the distance.

With Wesley's watchful eyes on him, Grayson muttered into the night sky, running his fingers through his tousled hair, "Eleanor, oh Eleanor, what kind of man have you gotten yourself involved with? You're gonna need all the luck you can get."

...

Eleanor didn't wake up until the next afternoon, feeling as if she'd been run over by a truck, every part of her body screaming in pain.

She attempted to turn over and nearly passed out from the agony.

It took her a moment to recall the events of the previous night—the bruises were a souvenir from repeated run-ins with the door.

Relieved she'd survived the ordeal, she let out a long sigh.

As she reached for her phone on the nightstand, it rang—it was Grayson on the other end.

"Eleanor, you up?"

"Mhm," she hummed, nasally.

"Where are you right now?"

Eleanor was puzzled. "At home. Didn't you bring me back?"

There was a pause on the line before Grayson muttered something she couldn't quite catch, "Well, at least he's got some conscience."

Before she could ask him to clarify, Grayson quickly changed the subject, "You hungry? I'm packing up some grub for you. Give me ten more minutes."

With that, Grayson hung up.

No wonder there was so much noise on his end—he was out getting takeout.

Eleanor tried to shift her position again, a spike of pain nearly taking her breath away, but she managed to sit up regardless.

The blanket slid off, revealing her pajamas, and she paused in confusion.
Even though Grayson was her friend, he had his limits. Changing clothes and those sorts of things were just not up his alley.

She was puzzled. Rising to her feet, she opened her bedroom door and stepped out.

The entryway was spotless.

Yet, the night before, it had been a total mess.

Grayson, the privileged one, wouldn't bother with this type of chore.

Then, recalling what Grayson had said over the phone, it all clicked.

It had been Aaron who brought her back home.

As the realization washed over her, emotions churned within her, and she couldn't help but feel tearful.

Last night, she had wanted to confront him. What if Peter had...? Yet Aaron had looked on, indifferent. Now, she was relieved she hadn't asked, sparing herself further humiliation.

But that didn't matter anymore. What mattered was that Aaron was intent on teaching her a lesson.

It wasn't long before Grayson arrived.

Before moving to Nan City, Eleanor had lived in Guangcheng, and after all these years, she still craved the street food from there. In a way, it kept the memory of her father alive.

Grayson brought all of Eleanor's favorites, but she could hardly eat. With little appetite, she nibbled at the food while Grayson, the athlete, sipped plain water alongside her, careful as ever about what he consumed.

"Peter's injuries have been assessed. It was self-defense," Grayson mentioned casually, placing a dumpling into her bowl with his chopsticks.

Eleanor nodded, inwardly aware of the situation.

"Now that it's been determined, everything that follows is out of your hands," Grayson commented, setting down his water bottle, a sharp glint briefly flashing in his eyes.

Eleanor paused, recognizing that look—it was his 'up to no good' face. "What're you planning?"

"Oh, nothing much. I thought about beating him up myself, but with the cops around, I couldn’t make it too obvious. Instead, I had someone spike his food to give him an... urgent need for the bathroom. Let him rush there a dozen times today, that'll give his wound a nice workout," Grayson explained with a hint of mischief.

Eleanor couldn't help but burst into laughter at the image, a mischievous streak shining through her usually placid demeanor. "Make sure it's strong enough to give him a proper dose of both pain and urgency."

Seeing her smile, Grayson breathed a sigh of relief—he had been worried the whole ordeal might have broken her spirit.

And he had more good news to share.

"The police have started digging into his past. They're unearthing all his skeletons. Given his history, he's likely looking at a decade or more behind bars."

Eleanor knew that the police didn't just investigate anyone and that the Vaughn family had connections, but she also understood the extent of her own family's influence—the Ji's family's reach far exceeded that of the Vaughns.

"You pulled some strings?" she inquired with an understanding that her family held considerable power.
Grayson shook his head with a wry smile. "I was just thinking about making a move, but someone beat me to the punch."

"Who?" the intrigue was evident in her voice.

Grayson gave her a meaningful look that lingered a little too long.

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