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The mornings had a rhythm now. Not a perfect rhythm, not a graceful one—but one that belonged wholly to them. Eleanor stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot, still in her robe, a smear of jam on her wrist and coffee going lukewarm beside her. Across from her, Leo—her Leo—was building an elaborate tower of cereal boxes and action figures, humming a tuneless song as he went.
He was four, all limbs and laughter, with a mop of dark, unruly hair and eyes that still made her breath catch: violet-blue, too specific, too impossible to forget.
Five years. It felt like both a blink and a lifetime.
Eleanor had built a quiet, stable life by the sea, away from the noise of the city, away from questions and memories. She worked from home now, designing brand kits and ad layouts for mid-sized businesses and the occasional artsy start-up. It paid the bills. It let her be present. It let her be safe.
But lately, that safety had begun to feel... small.
The spark that once lit her fingers when she opened a fresh Photoshop file had dulled into something utilitarian. The work wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t enough anymore. She was grateful—but stifled. Content—but craving something she couldn’t quite name.
She was rinsing Leo’s sticky hands in the sink when her phone buzzed on the counter.
Lea. Her name lit up the screen like a signal flare.
Eleanor answered with a smile. “You’re calling before noon. That’s either very good or very bad.”
“It’s very good,” Lea said, practically vibrating through the line. “And you’re not allowed to say no before I finish.”
“That’s ominous.”
“I’m serious, El. Listen—Sterling Enterprises. You know the name.”
Eleanor paused. Of course she did. Who didn’t?
Lea went on, “Their Executive Assistant is leaving—getting married, moving to Bali or something disgustingly romantic. And guess who’s been asked to help find a replacement?”
Eleanor blinked. “Wait, are you—are you suggesting me?”
“Not suggesting. Pushing. Campaigning. Begging, if I have to.”
“Lea—”
“No. Hear me out,” Lea insisted. “He—Marcus Sterling—is a nightmare, okay? A brilliant, cold-blooded, never-sleeps kind of CEO. But he needs someone who can think fast, organize chaos, and won’t fall apart if he glares too hard. You thrive in pressure, El. And this job? It’s a doorway. Hell, it’s a portal.”
Eleanor sank into a kitchen chair. “That’s… a lot.”
“I got you an interview. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” she echoed, half-choking on her coffee. “Leo—my schedule—my life isn’t built for—”
“Your life can be bigger, El. And I’m not saying you need to leap off a cliff, but maybe… maybe step up to the edge and look.”
There was a long silence on the line. Eleanor stared out the window, where Leo was now crouched in the garden, inspecting a line of ants with scientific focus. He was growing so fast. And someday, he’d ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer. About his father. About her.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for the city again,” she said quietly.
“I know,” Lea replied, voice gentler now. “But maybe it’s not about being ready. Maybe it’s about being willing.”
The silence pressed between them again.
Then Eleanor exhaled slowly. “Okay. I’ll go. One interview. No promises.”
“Deal,” Lea said brightly. “And wear that green blouse. The one that makes you look like you own the world.”
Eleanor smiled faintly as the call ended.
She looked down at the crayon drawing Leo had left on the table—a crooked sun, a smiling stick figure labeled Mommy, and a tiny handprint pressed beside it in blue paint.
She was terrified. But maybe Lea was right.
Maybe it was time to make space for something more.
