Chapter 2 - Six Months Before the Wedding
Travis first met Eleanor inside a building everyone else had given up on.
The Ashford Library had once been one of Boston’s most beautiful landmarks. By the time Travis entered it, rainwater had damaged the ceiling, vines covered the rear wall, and developers were waiting for permission to demolish it.
Travis was a restoration architect with a habit of choosing impossible projects. He believed old buildings deserved the same thing people did: a chance to become useful again without losing every trace of what they had survived.
He was examining a cracked stone arch when a woman’s voice spoke behind him.
“You are standing beneath forty pounds of loose plaster.”
Travis looked up.
A piece of the ceiling dropped.
He moved aside just before it shattered against the floor.
The woman standing near the entrance did not flinch.
She wore a charcoal coat, black gloves, and pearl earrings. Her silver hair was tied neatly at the back of her head. She looked out of place among the dust and broken furniture, yet she studied the abandoned library with genuine sadness.
“You could have warned me sooner,” Travis said.
“I wanted to see whether the famous architect had good reflexes.”
“I am famous?”
“Only among people who argue about bricks at charity dinners.”
She introduced herself as Eleanor Hart.
Travis recognized the name immediately. Hart Holdings owned hotels, shipping companies, commercial property, and half the waterfront buildings visible from his office.
Eleanor was its controlling shareholder.
She was also the private donor who had purchased the library from the city to prevent its demolition.
“You intend to restore it?” he asked.
“I intend to find someone who does not want to turn it into luxury apartments.”
“That removes most architects in Boston.”
“Which is why I asked for you.”
They walked through the damaged reading hall.
Eleanor did not talk about profit. She asked whether the children’s section could be rebuilt near the windows. She wanted free evening classes, public computers, and a room where people could receive legal help without charge.
Travis showed her which walls could be saved and which sections needed reinforcement.
When he explained that the original oak shelves could be repaired, Eleanor smiled.
It was the first time he saw something warm behind her careful expression.
Their professional meetings became longer.
They discussed plans over coffee, then dinner. Eleanor was twenty-four years older than Travis, but conversation with her felt easier than it did with people his own age.
She had spent decades surrounded by executives who praised her decisions before secretly betting against them. Travis disagreed with her openly. He told her when a plan was unrealistic. He refused expensive gifts and once returned a watch worth more than his first car.
Eleanor found his honesty almost suspicious.
Travis found her loneliness impossible to ignore.
The newspapers had spent years describing Eleanor as cold, ruthless, and impossible to please. Travis saw a woman who remembered the names of every library worker and sent food to the night guards during winter.
She never spoke about children.
Whenever families visited the construction site, Eleanor watched them from a distance.
One afternoon, a young mother entered with a baby sleeping against her shoulder.
Eleanor froze.
The rolled plans slipped from her hands.
Travis helped gather them.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You look pale.”
“I remembered something.”
“What?”
Eleanor looked toward the baby.
“A hospital room.”
Before Travis could ask more, Sebastian Vale appeared.
Sebastian was Eleanor’s attorney, financial adviser, and distant cousin. He was a polished man in his forties who wore dark suits and smiled without warmth.
“There you are,” Sebastian said. “The board meeting started ten minutes ago.”
Eleanor composed herself.
“I lost track of time.”
Sebastian glanced at Travis.
“You have been doing that often lately.”
The words sounded harmless, but his eyes did not.
As Eleanor followed Sebastian outside, Travis noticed a folder left on a table.
The label read Hart Family Trust.
A handwritten note had been clipped to the front.
No lawful heir located.
Control transfers upon Eleanor Hart’s death.
Travis did not open the folder.
May you like
He simply placed it where Sebastian would find it.
Yet that evening, he could not stop thinking about the sadness in Eleanor’s face when she had looked at the baby.
