Chapter 684

Harrison turned sharply at the sound of approaching footsteps. A woman in an emerald silk gown glided toward them. Eleanor Lancaster—Henry's first love—stood before them with the poise of a queen.

At forty-five, Eleanor maintained an effortless elegance that made Harrison catch her breath. The delicate lines of her face spoke of meticulous care, her hazel eyes holding decades of unspoken stories.

Harrison had never known any woman close to Henry. Rumor had it his marriage to Isabella had ended years ago over irreconcilable differences.

"Mr. Lancaster," Harrison asked carefully, "who is this? How should I address her?"

Henry's gaze flickered to Eleanor. "Ms. Lancaster will suffice. Eleanor, this is Ms. Whitmore."

The moment he said "Ms. Lancaster," Harrison noticed the brief tightening around Eleanor's eyes. A fraction of a second—then it was gone, replaced by perfect composure.

"Pleasure, Ms. Whitmore," Eleanor said, her smile polished.

Harrison inclined her head. "Likewise, Ms. Lancaster."

Eleanor turned back to Henry. "Your trip abroad lasted longer than expected. Business complications?"

Henry's jaw tensed. "I located Isabella's mother."

Harrison's breath hitched. She'd never been certain whether the woman was alive, but Henry's tone left no room for doubt—not only alive, but found.

Eleanor's porcelain skin paled. "After all these years... she survived?"

"Barely," Henry admitted. "In a coma until recently. She's awake now. I've told her everything about Isabella. She'll be returning to Metropolia soon."

A storm of emotions flashed across Eleanor's face before she smoothed her expression. "Isabella always misunderstood us. When she returns, you should clarify everything. Perhaps... there's still hope for reconciliation."

Henry's voice turned to ice.

"She chose the divorce. She walked away. That chapter is closed."

Without another word, he strode down the hall, his footsteps echoing like gunshots.

Eleanor's lips curved in a private smile before she turned back to Harrison. "Your suite is prepared, Ms. Whitmore. My staff will attend to any needs."

Harrison studied Eleanor—the way she commanded the manor like its undisputed mistress. The rumors were true: Eleanor had been the one Henry loved before political alliances forced him to marry Isabella. When Isabella discovered their ongoing connection, she'd filed for divorce without hesitation.

By all appearances, Eleanor had won.

Yet victory remained incomplete. After all these years, she remained "Ms. Lancaster"—never Mrs.

"Thank you," Harrison said simply.

Settling into the Lancaster estate, Harrison knew the real pressure point wasn't herself—it was Isabella.

Charlotte and Victoria remained Isabella's prisoners. The longer her associates went without contact, the more reckless they'd become. Desperation bred mistakes. Mistakes led to exposure.

Isabella was pacing her locked bedroom when the burner phone vibrated again. "Ms. Lancaster speaking."

Her pulse spiked. "I told you—no calls unless I initiate!" she hissed. "My father's home! If he hears—"

It wasn't just Henry. Harrison lurked in the estate like a shadow. Every creak of the floorboards set Isabella's nerves alight.

The distorted voice chuckled. "Relax. This line's untraceable. Just don't get sloppy."

"But—"

"You were supposed to meet us today. Where the hell are you? This isn't a game!"