CHADLABS Scholarly Hub
The following morning, Eleanor woke with a heavy heart and a sense of grim determination. The decision to resign, though painful, felt like the only path forward, a way to reclaim some semblance of control in a situation that had spiraled so far beyond her grasp.
Before the first rays of dawn even touched the New York skyline, Eleanor was at her desk at Sterling Enterprises. The office was eerily quiet, the deserted hallways amplifying the sound of her footsteps as she walked towards her office. With trembling hands, she retrieved the formal resignation letter from her draft folder, printed it, and placed it in a sealed envelope addressed to Mr. Marcus Sterling. She left it in the center of her meticulously organized desk, a silent testament to the end of this chapter of her life.
Next, she dialed into the office phone system and left a message for Marcus’s voicemail, informing him that she wouldn't be coming in today due to a sudden illness. It was a lie, but a necessary one. She couldn’t face him again just yet, not with the raw emotions still simmering beneath the surface.
Her plan was to clear out her personal belongings later that evening, after everyone had left for the day, ensuring a clean break without the awkwardness of farewells and questioning glances. Then, she would drive straight to her parents’ house, a few hours outside the city, to pick up Leo. The thought of holding her son again, of burying her face in his soft hair, was the only thing that offered her a sliver of comfort in the overwhelming despair she felt.
Meanwhile, Marcus had arrived at his office that morning with a gnawing unease. Eleanor’s coldness in the days since their return from Chicago had been a constant source of frustration, but her absence today felt different, heavier. He hadn’t expected her to simply accept his accusations, but a small part of him had hoped she would fight, would offer some explanation, some denial beyond her initial tearful plea.
He found the resignation letter on Eleanor’s desk shortly after arriving. The stark white envelope, addressed in her familiar handwriting, felt like a physical blow. He stood there for a long moment, the silence of the empty office pressing in on him, the weight of his actions settling heavily in his chest. He hadn’t wanted this. He had wanted… he wasn’t even sure what he had wanted, but it certainly wasn’t this cold, formal ending.
He picked up the letter, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her name. He hesitated for a moment, a strange reluctance to break the seal, to make this final. But the unanswered questions, the lingering unease that had plagued him since Sienna’s email, urged him on.
As he reached for a letter opener on Eleanor’s otherwise pristine desk, his elbow bumped her oversized tote bag, causing it to fall to the side. A small, brightly colored piece of paper slipped out from its open top and fluttered to the floor.
Marcus frowned, bending down to pick it up. It was a child’s drawing, rendered in vibrant crayon. Three figures: a woman labeled “Mommy” in wobbly letters, a smaller figure next to her 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.”
Marcus froze, the childish scrawl sending a jolt of confusion through him. Mommy? Me? A drawing from a child. He focused on the third figure. A man. The scribbled dark hair… the distinct, almost unnerving accuracy of the violet-blue eyes. His own eyes. His gaze darted back to the “Mommy” figure, then to the smaller one labeled “Me.” Mommy… and her child? A cold wave of disorientation washed over him. Could this be… the barrier? The underlying hesitation he had always felt with Eleanor, even in their most intimate moments in Chicago? That subtle holding back, that guardedness that had both intrigued and frustrated him. Had she been protecting someone? Protecting him?
The accusation of corporate espionage suddenly felt flimsy, ridiculous even. This drawing… this innocent depiction of a child’s world felt far more significant, far more telling. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragmented clues, the missed signals. Eleanor leaving the city five years ago… her fierce independence… her unwavering focus on her work. A child. It had to be.
A son. He had a son? And Eleanor… Eleanor had kept him a secret? Five years? The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow, stealing his breath and replacing his anger with a profound sense of shock.
Without a second thought, Marcus grabbed the drawing and strode out of Eleanor’s office, his mind racing, the carefully constructed walls of his reality beginning to crumble. He had to know for sure. He had to see the proof. He headed straight for the HR department, the drawing clutched in his hand, a single thought pounding in his head: he needed Eleanor’s home address. Now.
