The CEO's Unspoken Love Novel

Chapter 37 Derek POV I stood there, watching Eleanor's face shift from anger to shock as she realized I was in the doorway. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her pale except for two spots of pink high on her cheekbones. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the air between us charged with unspoken words. "So, I finally said, breaking the silence as I walked further into the shop. "That's how you really feel about me. Interesting." Eleanor took a step back, her hands reflexively gripping the edge of the counter.

"Derek, I was just-she was saying things that weren't true, and I got angry-" "No," I cut her off, my voice surprisingly calm given the storm inside me. "I think you were very clear. Remarkably articulate, in fact." I moved around the shop, taking in the displays of flowers, the carefully arranged ribbons and vases, this space that was so completely Eleanor's and that I'd never bothered to visit before today. Why had I come here? Some misguided attempt to connect, to see the life she'd built while I was away?

I picked up a single stem from a nearby bucket-some blue flower I couldn't name-twirling it between my fingers. "It seems I'm the only one who's been foolish enough to think our arrangement might have become something less... suffocating." Eleanor's eyes widened slightly at this, but she quickly composed herself. "Why are you here, Derek? You said you had meetings all day." "They ended early," I replied, deliberately casual. "I thought I'd surprise my 'suffering' wife at her workplace. Clearly, that was a mistake." I watched her flinch at my words and felt a hollow satisfaction.

At least I wasn't the only one in pain now. But beneath my anger, I couldn't help noticing how her eyes had flashed with genuine hurt when that woman had mentioned Seraphina. There had been something raw in her expression just before her outburst-something I recognized because I'd seen it before in quiet moments when she thought no one was watching. As Eleanor stood there, looking vulnerable and defiant all at once, a sudden, visceral urge surged through me.

I wanted to cross the room, grab her by the waist, and kiss her-hard and possessively-until she forgot whoever had upset her, until she forgot everything except that she was mine. My body tensed with the impulse to press her against the counter, tangle my fingers in her hair, and claim her mouth until she stopped saying I was nothing to her. In my mind, I could already feel her initial resistance giving way, her hands pushing against my chest before inevitably clutching my shirt, pulling me closer.

I imagined lifting her onto the counter, shoving aside the floral arrangements, her legs wrapping around my waist as I marked her neck with kisses. I would make her acknowledge who she belonged to-make her admit that there was nothing "cold" or "distant" about what sparked between us. I blinked, startled by the vivid intensity of these thoughts. Christ, what was wrong with me? Was I really standing here like some 1/3 hormone-driven teenager, fantasizing about taking Eleanor on a flower shop counter because my feelings were hurt? I drew a deep breath, disgusted with my lack of control.

I was a Wells, for god's sake, not some impulsive boy who couldn't master his baser instincts when his pride was wounded. Well, I continued, setting the flower down carefully and forcing my mind back to reality, "you've made your feelings abundantly clear, Eleanor. I appreciate the honesty, truly. It's refreshing to finally have some truth between us." I moved toward the door, pausing to look back at her one last time. She stood frozen by the counter, her eyes wide and troubled, lips slightly parted as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

The sight nearly undid my resolve, but I steeled myself against the impulse. "I won't trouble you any further," I said, my hand on the door. As I stepped outside into the cool evening air, I felt a confusing mix of anger, hurt, and something deeper I refused to name. I nodded to Michael, who waited beside the car, and slid into the backseat. "Back to the office," I instructed, my voice giving nothing away. As we pulled away from the curb, I gazed out at the darkening streets of Boston, my mind churning. Her words replayed in my head like a cruel loop: "He's nothing to me...

If I could, I'd sign divorce papers right now and be done with Derek Wells forever!" The vehemence in her voice had been unmistakable. But was it genuine hatred, or had that woman-Sophia-deliberately provoked her? I recalled the tension in Eleanor's posture, the defensive way she'd held herself. Something about the whole scene felt off, yet the pain of her words was too real to dismiss. For years, I'd maintained careful distance, convinced that emotional entanglement would only complicate what was meant to be a temporary arrangement.

I'd gone to London partly to escape the confusing pull I felt toward her, the inconvenient desire that wouldn't fade despite my best efforts. These past weeks since my return, I'd found myself drawn to her in ways I hadn't anticipated-wanting to protect her, to see her smile, to understand the woman she'd become. And now this. Perhaps it was better this way. A clean break before I made the mistake of wanting something that could never be. I pulled out my phone, checking the calendar for my scheduled meeting with the family lawyer.

The thought of proceeding with the divorce papers brought an unexpected heaviness to my chest. Not regret-I told myself firmly-just the natural response to rejection. "What did you expect?" I murmured to myself, watching raindrops begin to streak the window. "This was always the plan." I needed distance. Work. Something to focus on besides the image of Eleanor's face when she saw me standing in the doorway-the flash of horror that had replaced her anger. Was it because she regretted her words, or simply because she'd been caught speaking them? I dialed my assistant.

"Reschedule the Morgan Stanley meeting for tonight. I'll be back at the office within the hour." It was time to get back to what I knew best: work. Everything else-especially the ache in my chest that I refused to acknowledge-could 2/3 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.