TRILLIONAIRE'S COLD REVENGE

Eleanor's True Intentions

The night air grew thicker as John approached Westwood Bridge, the fog rolling in from the river like a shroud, muffling the distant hum of the city. The bridge arched over the dark water, its stone railings weathered and cracked, illuminated by sporadic sodium lamps that cast long, eerie shadows. John's footsteps echoed softly on the pavement, his breath visible in the chill. He checked his old phone again—8:57 PM. His heart raced with a mix of curiosity and caution. Who could it be? A Ravenshore contact with urgent information? Or a trap set by the Prestwicks or Fergusons, sniffing out his sudden disappearance from their lives?

From afar, he spotted a car parked near the bridge's midpoint—a sleek red Mercedes Benz, its headlights off but its engine idling with a low purr. The sight stopped him in his tracks. That car... it was familiar. Too familiar. He squinted through the fog, his mind racing to place it. The red paint, the custom rims, the tinted windows—the exact model, the exact shade. Then it hit him like a punch to the gut: Eleanor. He'd seen her drive the identical car countless times, cruising into the Prestwick estate or pulling up to galas where he'd been her embarrassing shadow. But it couldn't be her. There was no way she'd want to see him, not after the divorce, the humiliation, her smug engagement to Richard Ferguson. What could she possibly want with him now?

Shaking off the unease, John continued walking, his jacket zipped tight against the wind. The bridge loomed larger, the river below whispering against the pilings. As he drew closer, the car's door opened with a soft click, and a figure stepped out—elegant, poised, dressed in a black coat that hugged her figure. Eleanor's face emerged from the shadows, her diamond earrings catching the lamplight, her lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

John's eyes narrowed, his steps slowing. He stopped a few feet away, gazing at her without a word, his expression a mask of cold indifference. The fog swirled between them, but it couldn't hide the tension crackling in the air.

"Dear ex-husband," Eleanor said, her voice smooth and mocking, "it's good to see you."

John's face remained stone-cold, his bruised features giving nothing away. He crossed his arms, the Ravenshore phone heavy in his pocket like a secret weapon. "Why do you want to see me?" he asked, his tone flat, laced with suspicion.

Eleanor tilted her head, her smile widening as she stepped closer, her heels clicking on the pavement. "Oh, John. Can't a woman miss her ex-husband? I just wanted to see that handsome face of yours one more time."

John scoffed, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed off the bridge. "Cut the bullshit, Eleanor. What's the real reason you're here?"

She gazed at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if trying to peel back layers. Then her smile faded, replaced by a calculated gleam. "Fine. No games. I want to know the reason why Hannah so eagerly requested to marry you last night—in front of the whole family. What made her sacrifice everything? Her position, her home, her status... just to marry a poor, unfortunate man like you?"

John laughed, a low, mocking rumble that started in his chest and built until it stopped abruptly. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why are you so curious about Hannah's intentions, Eleanor? Is it because you're jealous? Jealous that someone better than you is going to marry your unfortunate ex-husband?"

Eleanor's face twisted, insulted fury flashing in her eyes. She scoffed angrily, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "Jealous? Of you? I'd never be jealous of anything concerning you, John. You're nothing—a failure, a parasite. I just want to know why Hannah made that stupid decision last night. She's smarter than this. What are you hiding?"

John's expression turned colder, his smirk fading into a steely glare. "That's a question you'll never get an answer to."

He turned on his heel, ready to walk away, the fog swallowing his footsteps. But Eleanor's voice cut through the night, sharp and laced with warning. "I know you're hiding something, John. Whatever you're planning with Hannah, it won't work out."

John paused, turning his head slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're wrong about that. My plans are already working more perfectly than I could have ever predicted."

He saw the fear flicker in her eyes, a brief widening that betrayed her composure, and it made his smirk widen. "Never message me again," he warned, his voice low and threatening. "Stay out of my life."

With that, he began walking away, the bridge's end in sight, the city's distant lights calling him back to safety.

"Stop!" Eleanor's voice rang out, desperate and edged with panic.

John stopped, turning around slowly. His eyes widened slightly as she reached into her coat and pulled out a small, sleek pistol, its barrel glinting under the lamplight. Shock rippled through him—she had a gun? Eleanor, the polished heiress, wielding a weapon like some cornered criminal? But he didn't let the emotion show on his face, forcing his expression back to cold neutrality. He gazed at her steadily as she pointed the gun at him, her hands trembling slightly, the fog curling around her like a veil.

"You think you can just come here and leave like that?" she hissed, her voice shaking. "I'm not letting you go, John. God knows what you're planning with Hannah. Tell me now, or I swear—"

John sensed the fear in her voice, raw and unfiltered, beneath the anger. He badly wanted to mock her, to throw her insecurities back in her face, but he knew better than to provoke someone with a gun pointed at him. "Put the gun aside, Eleanor," he said calmly, his tone even. "Leave now before you do something stupid."

She laughed wickedly, a high, unsteady sound that echoed off the bridge, shaking her head. "Calm? You're always so calm, aren't you? But you're not leaving here until I get answers to my questions."

John's mind raced, calculating. The distance between them was closing as she stepped forward, but it wasn't far—if he ran, she might fire out of panic. His best option was to play along, answer her questions, buy time. "Ask whatever you want," he said, his voice steady. "It's getting late."

Eleanor walked closer, the gun trained on him, her eyes wild. She stopped inches away, pressing the barrel against his forehead. The cold metal bit into his skin, but John remained calm, his breathing even, infuriating her further. "Tell me the real reason why Hannah wants to marry you," she demanded, her voice a low growl.

"She loves me," John replied simply, his eyes locked on hers.

She scoffed, disbelief twisting her features. "Love? Do you take me for a fool?"

She pressed the gun harder against his head, her finger hovering near the trigger. "Tell me the truth right now!"

John smirked, his calm unshaken. "Why don't you want to believe that's the truth? Is it because you don't know the meaning of love? Or because you can't stand the thought that there's someone better than you who actually does love me?"

Eleanor's jaw clenched, her face flushing with rage. Her grip on the gun shook, her knuckles white. In that split second of distraction, John acted—swiftly elbowing her in the side of her stomach. She gasped, staggering back, and John followed through with a quick kick to her midsection. The gun flew from her hand, skittering across the pavement as she crashed to the floor, groaning in pain, clutching her stomach.

John moved fast, scooping up the gun and pointing it at her. Her eyes widened in shock, fear replacing her anger as she looked up at him from the ground.

"Give me a reason," John said, his voice calm but edged with steel, "not to pull the trigger right now and end your godforsaken life."

Eleanor begged, tears streaming down her face. "Please, John... don't. I'm sorry. Please!"

He stepped closer, the gun steady in his hand. "Give me just one reason why I shouldn't shoot you right now—after everything you did to me. After all the misery your family put me through. After you failed to pay my mother's bills like you promised and let me beg on the streets like a dog."

He screamed, the pent-up rage boiling over. "Give me one fucking reason!"

She sobbed, her body trembling. "John, please... I was wrong. I... I don't know. Mercy? Please, have mercy!"

John crouched to her level, the gun pressed against her forehead. "The reason I won't pull the trigger," he said calmly, "is because I'm not a heartless demon like you. I'm better than you. And I'll always be."

He rose to his full height, the gun still pointed at her, his eyes cold. "This is the last time you'll message me. The next time you do, you'll surely regret it."

He gazed at her for a few more seconds, watching her cower, then turned away. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the gun into the river, where it vanished into the dark water with a splash. He pointed at her one last time, a final warning in his eyes, before walking away, leaving her sobbing on the bridge.

The fog swallowed him as he headed back into the night, his heart pounding but his resolve stronger than ever. Eleanor had shown her true colors; desperate, violent, afraid. And that? That gave him the final push to start his revenge and make them pay for everything.