The CEO's Unspoken Love Novel

Chapter 21 By one-thirty in the morning, most of the group had departed. The private room, once filled with laughter and conversation, now held only a handful of stragglers. I was struggling to focus, my words slurring slightly as I attempted to tell Olivia about a new flower shipment arriving at my shop. "Alright, that's it," Olivia declared, gathering her purse. "I'm taking you home, El." I attempted to nod, but the movement sent the room spinning. I tried to stand, but my legs felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. The floor seemed to tilt beneath me, and I felt myself falling.

Somewhere in the fog of my consciousness, I registered voices talking above me. Olivia's concerned tone, and then Derek's deeper voice responding. Their words floated around me, fragments I couldn't piece together. "...too drunk..." ...my responsibility..." "...if you hurt her..." Warm, strong arms encircled me, steadying my world momentarily. I caught the familiar scent of Derek's cologne, and without thinking, I leaned into him, my head finding the solid comfort of his shoulder.

Derek POV I watched as the last guy filtered out of the private room, leaving me alone with a thoroughly intoxicated Eleanor. She was barely conscious, her head lolling against my shoulder as I supported her weight with my arm around her waist. It had been years since I'd seen her this vulnerable, this unguarded. "Let's get you home," I said, though I doubted she could fully comprehend my words. She mumbled something incoherent in response, her words slurring together into unintelligible sounds. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused and glassy, before closing again.

1 Getting her through the bar proved challenging. She could barely stand, let alone walk, and I found myself practically carrying her. Her slight frame felt surprisingly substantial as dead weight. Outside, the cool night air hit us, and Eleanor shivered involuntarily, pressing closer to my warmth. "Cold," she murmured, the only clear word she'd spoken in the last ten minutes. I signaled to the valet to call my driver, then guided-or rather, half-carried-Eleanor to a nearby bench to wait. Her head immediately dropped to my shoulder, her body completely relaxed against mine.

I looked down at her face, flushed from alcohol, her features softened in her inebriated state. Without the usual tension and 1/2 she looked younger, reminding me of the Eleanor I'd known before our marriage, before London, before everything became so complicated. Her hand unconsciously clutched at the lapel of my suit jacket, her fingers curling into the fabric as if seeking something to anchor her. I. noticed how small her hand looked against the dark material, how delicate her wrist appeared. "I hate you," she suddenly mumbled, her voice so quiet I almost missed it.

"But I don't know how to stop loving you." I froze, staring down at her. Had I heard correctly? Her eyes remained closed, her breathing deep and even. She might not even remember saying those words tomorrow-might not even realize she'd spoken aloud. But the words hung in the night air between us, impossible to unhear. For a moment, I allowed myself to consider what those words meant. The next second, my driver pulled up to the curb, interrupting my thoughts. I carefully gathered Eleanor into my arms, lifting her as gently as possible.

She stirred slightly but didn't wake, her head finding the crook of my neck naturally, her breath warm against my skin. As I carried her to the car, I was acutely aware of how perfectly she fit against me, how natural it felt to hold her this way. I should be sure that what I felt for Eleanor was purely physical, a basic biological response that meant nothing. But tonight, cradling her unconscious form as I slid into the backseat of my car, I wasn't so certain. "Where to, Mr. Wells?" my driver asked, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. I hesitated only briefly. "Home," I replied.

"Beacon Hill." As the car pulled away from the curb, Eleanor shifted in my arms, nestling closer. I adjusted my hold, ensuring she was comfortable, and found myself watching her sleep. In the passing streetlights, her face was illuminated in brief flashes-peaceful, beautiful, and completely unaware of the turmoil her whispered confession had caused inside me. Comments 4 Write Comments SHARE 2/2 Ruby Walker Ruby Walker is a rising voice in the world of romance and spicy fiction.

With a gift for weaving deep emotions, sizzling chemistry, and unexpected twists, her stories are a blend of passion and drama that captivate readers from start to finish. Ruby's writing style is bold and irresistible-perfect for those who crave intense, addictive love stories.