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The carefully constructed atmosphere of icy professionalism that Eleanor had cultivated in the office began to feel suffocating. Every forced polite interaction with Marcus, every averted gaze, was a constant reminder of the tangled mess they had created in Chicago. She longed for the simplicity of their former dynamic, even the tension-filled but clearly defined boundaries of their initial working relationship. Now, everything felt fraught, loaded with unspoken words and lingering memories.
One Tuesday morning, a small package arrived on Eleanor’s desk. It was addressed in her mother’s familiar looping handwriting. A wave of warmth, a brief respite from the constant anxiety, washed over her. She hadn’t spoken to her parents since she had abruptly sent Leo to stay with them, offering a vague excuse about the demands of the merger. She missed her son terribly; his absence was a constant ache in her chest.
Eleanor carefully tore open the package. Inside, nestled amongst rustling tissue paper, was a small, brightly colored assortment of Leo’s favorite snacks and a carefully folded piece of paper. Her heart squeezed with affection as she unfolded it. It was a drawing, rendered in the enthusiastic, slightly smudged style of a four-year-old artist. Three figures were depicted in vibrant crayon: a tall, smiling woman with stick-like arms labeled “Mommy” in wobbly letters, a smaller figure next to her, also smiling broadly and labeled “Me,” and a third figure standing slightly apart. This one was a man with scribbled dark hair and, most strikingly, eyes colored in an unmistakable shade of violet-blue. Beneath him, Leo had carefully printed, “The Man in Mommy’s Eyes.”
Eleanor’s blood ran cold. The innocent simplicity of the drawing struck her with the force of a physical blow. It was Leo’s innocent perception, his child’s-eye view of the man he had never met, yet whose presence was undeniably a part of their lives. The accuracy of the eye color was particularly jarring, a stark reminder of the undeniable connection that Eleanor had worked so hard to keep hidden.
Her hands trembled as she stared at the drawing. The sheer impossibility of the situation threatened to overwhelm her. How could she possibly keep this secret, this enormous truth, locked away forever? The risk of exposure felt more acute than ever, especially now, with Marcus’s own memory of their past flickering back to life.
A sudden sound made Eleanor jump. Marcus’s office door was opening. He stepped out, a file clutched in his hand, his gaze sweeping across the outer office. Panic surged through Eleanor. She couldn’t let him see this. Not now. Not like this.
With a speed born of sheer desperation, Eleanor crumpled the drawing and shoved it into her purse, the colorful crayon lines pressing against her trembling fingers. She barely had time to compose herself, to plaster on a semblance of professional calm, before Marcus’s gaze landed on her.
He paused, his violet-blue eyes, so similar to the ones depicted in Leo’s drawing, narrowed slightly. “Everything alright, Eleanor?” he asked, his tone neutral, but Eleanor could sense a subtle undercurrent of… something. Curiosity? Suspicion?
“Yes, Mr. Sterling,” she replied, her voice perhaps a little too bright, a little too quick. “Just received a package. Everything is fine.” She avoided his direct gaze, busying herself with rearranging the papers on her desk, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped bird.
Marcus’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, as if he sensed her unease, the frantic energy she was trying to conceal. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and headed towards the elevators, disappearing down the hallway.
Eleanor let out a shaky breath, leaning back in her chair, the crumpled drawing a heavy weight in her purse. That had been too close. Far too close. Leo’s innocent artwork, a simple expression of a child’s world, had become a dangerous piece of evidence, a stark reminder of the precariousness of her secret and the ever-present threat of its exposure. The unspoken truths between her and Marcus felt heavier than ever, the fragile walls she had built around her life threatening to crumble under the weight of a child’s drawing.
