The CEO's Unspoken Love

Eleanor POV

When Derek Wells asked me to marry him, he made it clear that it wouldn’t be forever.

Three years. Long enough to give his grandmother some peace after a frightening hospital stay. Then we could quietly go our separate ways.

I agreed.

I’d been in love with him since I was thirteen. Being offered three years as his wife felt like more than I’d ever let myself hope for.

I thought things might change once we were married. We’d live together. Have breakfast. Learn how to be around each other without his family watching.

Six months after the wedding, he moved to London.

I stayed in Boston, in a house with his name on the paperwork and almost none of his things in the closets.

Now our third anniversary was getting close, and I still hadn’t figured out how to stop wanting him.

“Please tell me those aren’t all for my wedding.”

I looked up from the worktable. My eleven o’clock appointment stood in the doorway, staring at a bucket of bright orange lilies.

“They’re for a restaurant opening,” I assured her. “Yours are back here.”

“Oh, thank God. My mother would’ve made me carry them anyway. She says I’m being difficult about the flowers.”

I brought out her sample bouquet: ivory roses, pale pink sweet peas, a few loose stems of greenery.

She set her bag down and took it with both hands.

For a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Then she smiled.

“That’s it.”

I’d spent half the morning adjusting the shape. Suddenly, the stiff neck and the tiny cut on my thumb seemed worth it.

We went through the table arrangements and delivery schedule. Her mother called twice. On the second call, the bride stepped outside, leaving the bouquet on my counter.

My phone buzzed beside the register.

Olivia: Still on for lunch?

Me: Yes. Wrapping up now.

Olivia: I’m ordering fries. If you’re late, there may be consequences.

Me: Save me three.

Olivia: Let’s not make promises we can’t keep.

By the time I’d finished the appointment, checked the afternoon orders, and handed the shop over to my part-time assistant, I was twelve minutes late.

Olivia had already claimed a booth at the café around the corner.

“You look like you’ve been fighting a shrub.”

“I won.”

She reached across the table and pulled a leaf out of my hair.

“Barely.”

I slid into the seat opposite her and picked up the menu.

We’d started doing these lunches a few months ago, after she’d caught me eating crackers over the shop sink and decided I needed supervision. Same café, whenever our schedules lined up. An actual meal, away from work.

Today, I wanted something hot that I wouldn’t have to eat standing up.

We ordered sandwiches and a basket of fries. Olivia was halfway through telling me about a client who’d rejected six versions of the same design when she glanced down at her phone.

She stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing. Hang on.”

Her thumb moved across the screen. She read something, then looked at me.

“Has Derek texted you today?”

I lowered my water glass.

“No. Why?”

She hesitated just long enough for my stomach to tighten.

Then she put her phone between us.

A business account had posted a short video of Derek walking into his firm’s Boston office. He wore a dark coat over his suit, his phone against his ear. Someone out of frame called his name. He turned slightly, and the video ended.

The caption welcomed him back to Boston.

Posted forty minutes ago.

I watched it again.

“You can scroll,” Olivia said gently. “There’s a statement from the company.”

“I saw.”

But I hadn’t read it. I was looking at his face.

His hair was a little longer than the last time I’d seen him. He needed a shave.

Those were the things I noticed before I could stop myself.

“Maybe he’s only here for meetings,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“He wouldn’t necessarily—”

I stopped.

Olivia didn’t finish the sentence for me. That made it harder.

I handed her phone back just as our food arrived.

The server set my sandwich in front of me and asked if we needed anything else.

“No, thanks,” I said.

Olivia waited until he’d gone.

“Do you want to call him?”

I took a fry from the basket. It was too hot, and I put it back.

“If he needs something, he has my number.”

It sounded reasonable. Almost casual.

Under the table, I pressed my thumb against the cut on my finger.

I went back to the shop after lunch.

A delivery driver had left an order at the wrong entrance. One of Saturday’s brides wanted to add four centerpieces. My supplier called to say the roses I’d reserved weren’t coming in, which meant finding a replacement before the end of the day.

There was plenty to do.

Still, every time my phone lit up, I looked.

A customer approved her invoice.

Olivia sent me a picture of the leaf she’d pulled out of my hair.

My phone reminded me to pay the shop’s electric bill.

Nothing from Derek.

At six thirty, I locked up, checked the door, then checked it again because I couldn’t remember doing it the first time.

On the way home, I picked up a sandwich for dinner.

I didn’t buy anything for him.

I had no idea whether he’d be there.

The townhouse was dark when I got home.

I turned on the hall light and set my bag down. For a moment, I stayed by the door, looking up the stairs.

I didn’t know why I’d expected anything to look different.

Derek was back in Boston. That didn’t mean he was coming here.

I put my things away and went upstairs.

In the main bathroom, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, then changed into a nightgown. By the time I got into bed, I was tired enough that I should’ve fallen asleep right away.

Instead, I kept looking at my phone.

No call. No message.

I set it on the nightstand and lay back.

Would he come home tonight?

He could be staying with his parents. He could have plans I knew nothing about. I wasn’t going to call around and ask.

Our marriage had an end date. We’d both agreed to it. He didn’t owe me an explanation for every night he spent somewhere else.

Knowing that didn’t make the empty half of the bed any easier to ignore.

I rolled onto my side and pulled the covers up.

The last time he’d been here was months ago. I wondered whether seeing him again would feel familiar or awkward. Whether he’d ask about the shop. Whether we’d manage a conversation that didn’t leave me wishing I’d said less.

Then I caught myself doing it again—planning an evening he hadn’t even said he’d spend with me.

I pushed back the covers.

A shower. Then sleep.

My shoulders were sore from working on arrangements all day, and I could still smell roses in my hair.

I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While the water warmed, I took off my nightgown and hung it beside my towel.

Then I stepped under the spray, closed my eyes, and let the hot water run over my shoulders.