Eleanor had no intention of spending her days at home while the two of them tore each other apart.
She used work as a shield—leaving before dawn, returning long after dark, abandoning them to their own weapons. Even when she was home, she stayed barricaded in the study, the door shut, the air inside smelling faintly of paper, ink, and control.
That night, the heavy office door eased open.
Someone slipped in—quiet, cautious, tentative.
It was her own body. Eleanor's body, with Eric's soul trapped inside.
He kept one hand clamped over his abdomen as he moved, gait stiff and uneven, as if every step tugged at stitches that weren't his. Under the harsh desk lamp his skin looked sallow, stretched thin over bone and exhaustion.
"Eleanor," he rasped, voice low and ragged. "Get her out. Get that monster out of this house."
Eleanor didn't look up from her spreadsheets. "Mom? What's the problem? I thought she was here to help you."
"Help?" His mouth twisted. "She's dismantling me."
The words spilled out—panicked, furious, desperate.
"She threw out my meds. Every last pill. She's locking me in my room. She won't let me anywhere near the babies, and she confiscated my phone." He swallowed; his throat bobbed hard. "She says I'm unstable. She said a crazy woman doesn't deserve to lay eyes on my daughters."
He lunged, fingers clawing at Eleanor's collar. Nails bit into the fabric. His hands shook with a mix of weakness and rage.
"And today," he choked, "she dragged in some damn psychiatrist. She sat there and watched while he grilled me with all these—these—questions—"
Eleanor's expression didn't flicker. She pried his fingers off her collar one by one—slow, steady, patient, like removing a child's grip from a hot stove.
"Look at yourself," she said softly. "You're a mess. I'm worried about you."
"You're playing me." Eric's whisper scraped into a rasp. He wanted to roar—to scream the truth—but fear held him by the throat. "Don't play dumb. I know exactly what you two are doing. I'm not crazy, and I'm not letting you win."
"I told you to keep your head down." Eleanor studied him the way a judge studies a defendant who's already been found guilty. "Who's going to believe you, Eric? I already had to manage my mother at the hospital. What on earth did you do to set her off this time?"
For a split second, raw panic flashed across his face—ugly and unguarded.
Being trapped in Eleanor's body had him hanging by a thread. Being labeled unstable and hauled into a facility would snap it clean.
No phone. No freedom. No outside world.
A prisoner in every sense.
"What could I do?" he hissed. "I'm stuck in bed all day. I can't even leave the room without her permission. She controls what I eat, what I drink—she took my damn phone. The nanny told her the chef had meals covered, but she still stomps in there, barking orders at me like I'm some lost cause."
Behind him, the door creaked again.
A sliver of silver-gray robe caught the light through the gap. Eric was too far gone to notice.
"You have to get her out," he said, voice trembling—half plea, half threat. "Now."
Eleanor finally set her papers down and stood. Her tone stayed chillingly mild.
"Mom is here for the babies. A psych evaluation is standard procedure," she said, letting the words settle in the air like dust. "Especially given… your recent behavior. The girls are coming home from the NICU soon. They need a mother who's stable. Mom is making sure you stay calm." A beat. "Your only job is to cooperate."
Eric's eyes widened, wet and bright with hate. "You're a monster."
He slammed his palm onto the desk—once, twice—as if force could crack reality open.
"Let me out! I'm not crazy! I'm Eric Davis! I'm the goddamn—"
The door flew open.
Linda stood there in her silver robe, expression flat, eyes like chips of ice.
"What on earth is this?" she demanded. "Screaming in the middle of the night again?"
She stepped into the room, gaze drilling into Eric. "Look at you. Sobbing. Carrying on like a complete lunatic. And you have the nerve to tell me you're fine?"
Then she snapped her head toward Eleanor, irritation sharpening her voice. "The psychiatrist already flagged it, Eric. Postpartum psychosis. She needs to be committed. I told you—send her to a private facility. Why are you still hesitating?"
Eleanor moved instantly—smooth and soothing—guiding Linda toward the sofa as if Linda were the one who needed careful handling.
"Mom, I know you only want what's best for her," Eleanor said, voice measured, warm enough to pass for concern. "And I agree—she's exhausted, she's not herself. But a facility… that's a heavy decision. We need to weigh our options carefully."
As she spoke to Linda, she cut her eyes to Eric.
One more word and you're done.
"And you—enough," Eleanor snapped, her tone shifting into disappointed, authoritative husband. "Stop this behavior immediately. The babies will be home any day now. Is this really what you want them to see? A mother who can't keep it together?"
The last of the fight drained out of Eric.
Between crashing blood sugar and the searing pull of his incision, his defiance finally snapped. The room tilted as adrenaline drained away, leaving him lightheaded and trembling. His legs gave out. He slid down the side of the desk until he hit the carpet, staring at the fibers like they were the only solid thing left.
Linda gave a short, satisfied huff. "See? This is it. All day long—crying, talking nonsense, acting out." Her lip curled. "I'm doing this for her own good. I'm saving her."
Eleanor lifted a hand—a small, downward press.
Enough.
When Eric's breathing finally steadied into the rhythm of defeat, Eleanor stepped closer and patted his shoulder with a touch that was almost gentle.
"Okay," she said. "Back to bed."
—
At home, everything stayed a powder keg.
At the company, the pace was relentless.
It didn't take long for Sophia to sense the shift. The new Eric's distance—the clinical coldness in his eyes—felt less like a busy executive and more like a warning. But Sophia wasn't the type to sit around and wait to be replaced.
She was already looking for a way to strike.
And then the opportunity presented itself.
After a senior leadership meeting, Sophia lingered until the executive wing cleared out. Only she and "Eric" remained. She waited until he started stacking files, preparing to call it a night.
Then Sophia drifted in.
The top two buttons of her blouse were undone—a look practiced in its casualness. Perfume followed her, faint and expensive, a soft net cast in the air. She leaned over the desk, "straightening" papers while offering a flash of skin that wasn't an accident. Her arm brushed his.
"Eric," she said softly, voice a low purr. "You've been… distant. What's going on?"
"Eric" shifted back, placing a deliberate foot of space between them. "Home and work are both a disaster right now. Once things settle, I'll find time."
The seduction hit a wall.
Sophia's eyes flickered—one beat of irritation—then she pivoted seamlessly.
"Fine." Sweetness returned, polished and perfect. "But what about that little arrangement we discussed? We can't let that stall out now."
Eleanor's chest tightened at the word arrangement. She kept her face unreadable. "I've been slammed. I haven't had a spare second to look at it."
"Which is exactly why you need a woman like me." Sophia flashed a smile that was sugar over teeth. "Relax. I already handled the heavy lifting."
She pulled a small folded slip of paper from her pocket and pressed it into Eleanor's hand. Her fingertips skimmed the back of his hand—lingering, deliberate.
"This is where it needs to go," she said, almost proud. "I've been running myself ragged to make this happen. A lot of talking. A lot of convincing." She lifted her eyes, searching for approval. "Am I good to you, or what?"
Eleanor took the paper. Cold spread in her chest.
That scrap wasn't just an address—it was a lead. A string she could pull until the whole shadow deal unraveled into daylight.
She forced her posture to soften and gave Sophia a brief, controlled hug. "Of course," she said. "You're the best."
Sophia didn't miss the opening. She squeezed back, fingers sliding down "Eric's" chest and lingering at his waist in a slow, proprietary crawl.
"I'm the one who's always in your corner, Eric," she murmured into his ear. "If I'm not good to you, who else is going to be?"
Then she took "Eric's" hand and pressed it firmly to her belly—rounded now, firm beneath the knit of her dress.
"Feel that?" she whispered, eyes shining with expectation. "You always said you wanted a son. Everything I'm doing… it's for us. For a real family."
Eleanor's stomach turned.
She hated Sophia for the betrayal. She hated Eric more for inviting this poison into their lives. And now she had to stand there wearing his skin while Sophia tried to build a home out of wreckage.
"Sophia, I—" Eleanor began.
Sophia pressed a finger to her lips. "Shh." Her breath was hot against Eleanor's ear. "I'm not in the mood for 'no.'"
Her hand slid lower, fingers hooking under his waistband—bold, intimate, calculated. She stepped closer, hips rolling in a slow grind meant to steal his breath.
"Come over tonight?" Sophia purred. "You can talk your way out of it, but your body doesn't lie, Eric."
Eleanor went rigid. Cold revulsion washed through her.
She seized Sophia's wrist and wrenched her hand away—hard—then recoiled a full step, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"No."
The word cracked through the air like a gunshot.
She forced her voice level, reaching for an excuse that would shut Sophia down cleanly.
"I'm not in the right headspace for this," Eleanor said, clipped and cold. "Watching Eleanor give birth—seeing all that blood—messed with me. I've been having… performance issues ever since. I'm not there."
Sophia froze. The seductive smile faltered, replaced by genuine confusion.
"Performance issues?" she repeated, purr gone. "You? Eric, we've never had that problem. Not once."
"Well, we do now," Eleanor snapped, leaning into the lie with the defensive edge of a man humiliated by his own body. "It got in my head. Every time I close my eyes, that's all I see. So just… drop it. I'm not in the mood to talk about it."
She turned her back, giving Sophia the bristling ego, the sharpness, the fragile pride. A familiar mask.
Sophia stood still, hand hovering where she'd touched him. For a woman who used her body as leverage, this was the one wall she didn't know how to climb.
The excuse was clumsy.
But it held.
Sophia's smile remained on her face—frozen—while suspicion crawled in behind her eyes. Her gaze traveled over "Eric," searching for a crack.
Eleanor didn't give her time.
"I'm done for the night," she said, already grabbing her coat. "I'm exhausted. I need sleep."
She brushed past Sophia and left—fast. Too fast.
Only when she hit the sidewalk did the night air slap her face, cooling the cold sweat prickling at her hairline. She took a shuddering breath, heart still punching at her ribs.
She pulled out her phone and snapped a high-res photo of the address on the slip of paper.
No hesitation.
She attached it to a message and sent it straight to her private investigator.
---------- 💬 Author's Note ----------
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