Chapter 42: I rather be lonely

Chapter 42: I rather be lonely

Eleanor’s POV

The pained, high-pitched squeak that escaped Dickson’s lips was immensely satisfying. He crumpled to the floor, clutching himself, his face a mask of shocked agony.

But the rage wasn’t satisfied. It was just getting started.

"What the fuck!" he finally managed to wheeze.

I dropped to my knees beside him, grabbed a fistful of his expensive shirt, and yanked him up. My hand cracked across his face with a sound that echoed in the small room.

"This," I snarled, "is for sucking me dry." Slap.

"This is for making me feel worthless." Slap.

"And this," I said, my voice trembling with a fury so pure it felt clean, "is for the audacity to think you can still use me."

I delivered one final, stinging blow. "And that’s nothing compared to what you’ve put me through. Consider it a returned favor for the one you gave me."

I released him, and he slumped back, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes. I stood up, rubbing my stinging palm. The physical pain was a grounding anchor in the storm of my emotions.

"I’ll... I’ll report you for assault!" he stammered, scrambling backward like a crab.

A laugh burst out of me, but it wasn’t a happy sound. It was harsh, grating, and felt like it came from somewhere deep and ancient inside me. When I spoke again, my voice was different. It was layered, echoing slightly in the room as if others were speaking with me, a chorus of all the pain he’d ever caused.

"This is

The color drained completely from his face.

"The key," I demanded, my voice returning to normal. "To my apartment. Now."

His hands shook so violently he could barely get the key off his ring. He tossed it onto the floor between us.

"Eleanor, please," he said, trying to adopt a calm, reasonable tone, the one he used to manipulate me. "Calm down. This is just a misunderstanding. Why... why would you want to hurt the man you love?"

The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. The rage receded, leaving behind a hollow, aching sadness. I paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

What are you doing? Beatrice screamed in my head. Don’t stop! He’s playing you!

I ignored her. I looked at Dickson, really looked at him, and saw the pathetic, weak man he was.

"You’re right," I said, my voice quiet and tired. "I did love you. I loved the Dickson who treated me right. The one who made me feel special, like I was the only person in the world. I thought I’d finally found it. Real love."

I saw a flicker of hope in his eyes, and it made me sick.

"And then you started pulling away. Reducing your efforts. I didn’t want to accept that it was because you had some ulterior motive. I thought it was my fault. That I’d done something wrong." The admission was painful, but necessary. "You took my love, my willingness to see the best in you, and you used it. You took it for granted."

I took a step back, putting more distance between us. "You know what? You might be right. Maybe I don’t deserve to be loved by anyone. But what I absolutely do not deserve is to be treated like crap. And I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than spend one more second with someone who makes me feel the way you do."

His face, which had begun to soften with that manipulative hope, hardened into a mask of pure contempt. My words had not landed as a plea for understanding, but as a rejection of his twisted reality.

"Treated like crap?" he repeated, his voice a low, dangerous sneer. "Is that what you call basic expectations? Is that what you call me trying to save you from your own miserable existence? You think you’re making some grand stand? You’re just proving my point. You’re unstable, Eleanor. You’re throwing away the only person willing to put up with you."

He took a menacing step forward, but I stood my ground.

"You are not

"That Eleanor is gone," I said, my voice eerily calm, a stark contrast to his shaking fury.

I walked to the door and pulled it open. "Get out," I said, my voice low. "Or I will drag you out."

Dickson’s face contorted with a fresh wave of fury, the fear momentarily burned away by sheer outrage. "So you think you can lay your filthy hands on me now? You think you can be this stupidly bold?" He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "I’m going to show you what happens when you forget your place!"

He lunged for the decorative vase, hurling it at my head. I sidestepped, and it shattered against the doorframe. Before I could react, he slammed into me, his weight driving me back. His hands grabbed my shoulders, his face inches from mine, spittle flying as he cursed.

"You see?! I’m the man! I’m bigger! I’m stronger! You only got a cheap shot in because I was surprised! Don’t you ever forget that!"

I brought my arms up, blocking my face as he tried to shake me. The rage, the one that felt like it belonged to Beatrice and me together, ignited again. It wasn’t a blind fury; it was a cold, focused power. I twisted, breaking his grip, and drove my fist forward.

The crack of his nose breaking was a sickening, satisfying sound. He screamed, a high-pitched shriek of pain and shock, stumbling back with his hands flying to his face.

"When the fuck did you get so strong?!" he wailed, blood already streaming through his fingers. "Have you been training? You did this on purpose! This is why you’re acting like a crazy bitch!"

I didn’t answer. I just bent down, grabbed his ankle, and started pulling. He was heavier than I expected, but the strange strength in my limbs didn’t falter. I dragged him across the floor, his protests turning into incoherent yelps.

My door was still open. My neighbor from across the hall stepped out, his eyes wide with shock at the scene: me, calmly dragging a bleeding, cursing Dickson by his leg into the hallway.

I looked from Dickson’s pathetic form to the neighbor. "And that," I said, my voice cutting through Dickson’s cries, "is what I’ll do to you if you keep playing loud music and disturbing my peace."

The man flinched, his face pale. "You’re crazy!" he stammered, and practically dove back into his apartment, slamming the door shut.

"My nose!" Dickson moaned, clutching his face. "It’s bleeding! You have to fucking do something!"

I kept dragging him toward the elevator. "With pleasure."

"I meant stop the bleeding, you psycho!" he shrieked.

I dragged him into the elevator, his pathetic struggles growing weaker as the doors slid shut. The descent to the ground floor was accompanied by his muffled sobs and the metallic hum of the machinery. When the doors opened onto the lobby, he found a second wind of panic.

"Help me!" he screamed, his voice raw and desperate. "Somebody! She’s a psycho! She’s going to kill me!"

A few people in the lobby turned, their faces a mixture of concern and hesitation. But no one moved. It wasn’t necessarily cruelty; it was the ingrained caution of a world where getting involved often meant inheriting someone else’s nightmare. A good deed could easily be punished.

As I pulled him across the polished floor toward the main doors, his screams turned to wails. "Please, Eleanor! Don’t kill me! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!"

We reached the sidewalk. The cool night air hit my face. I let go of his leg. He scrambled away from me like a crab, slipping on the pavement in his haste to get up. Once on his feet, he didn’t look back. He just ran, clutching his bloody nose, still shouting over his shoulder. "Someone call the police! That woman is insane!"

I watched, my chest heaving, as he fumbled with his car keys, dove into his vehicle, and screeched away from the curb. His final insult, "You’ll regret this!", was swallowed by the sound of the engine.

And then, it was over.

The red haze of rage cleared as suddenly as it had arrived. The strange, cold strength drained from my limbs, leaving me feeling shaky and hollow. I became acutely aware of the people on the street, staring at me with wide, uncertain eyes. A woman clutching her grocery bags tighter. A man quickly looking away.

What have I done?

I had publicly assaulted a man. I had dragged him through my building. I had broken his nose. I had... enjoyed it.

A cold wave of shock washed over me. This wasn’t me. I had acted completely out of line.

"Shit," I whispered to the empty air.

Without meeting anyone’s gaze, I turned on my heel and walked stiffly back into my building, the eyes of the strangers burning into my back. The elevator ride up was silent and suffocating. I stepped back into my apartment, closed the door, and slid down to the floor, my back against the wood.

I pushed myself off the floor, my legs still unsteady. I needed to call Mira. If Dickson actually went to the police, I’d need someone to know, someone who could maybe help. I don’t even know how i would explain it to her.

I found my phone where it had fallen during the struggle. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. As I unlocked it, my blood ran cold.

There were several missed calls.

From an unknown number.

There was a voicemail. My thumb hovered over the icon for a second before I pressed play, my heart hammering against my ribs.

A cold, automated female voice spoke, devoid of any emotion. "Message for Eleanor Moore. You are required to report to the Vexxon Estate immediately. Failure to comply will be considered a breach of your employment contract and will be dealt with accordingly." There was a pause. "This message will not be repeated."

The line went dead.

The phone slipped from my trembling hand, clattering onto the floor.

The CEOs. They were summoning me. To their estate.

Or else.

What did they want? Had they already heard about Dickson? Was that even possible? It had only just happened. Or was it about the track? Whatever it is, i will soon be finding out.