Eleanor almost burst out laughing at what she’d discovered.
She was in love with Hans—really, truly in love.
Una loved Hans too. Even knowing he hated her, Una refused to leave Fairvale.
Yet neither of them could measure up to the woman Hans held in his heart.
“Hans,” Eleanor demanded, “that woman—the one you’re in love with—who is she, really?”
She’d tried to find out, done her digging, but she’d come up empty.
All she knew was that every month, Hans transferred a sum of money into an account—a woman’s name on it.
Hans ignored her question about the mysterious woman. Instead, he shot back, “Was it you who hurt Una’s hand?”
“It wasn’t me,” Eleanor said, refusing to admit anything.
Monica’s patience snapped. “Enough! Eleanor is your wife. You should be worried about her, not picking fights over Una.”
She glanced at Eleanor, whose eyes were swollen from crying, and squared her shoulders. “It was me. I’m the one who had someone hurt Una’s hand.”
“She had it coming. She knew you were engaged and still wouldn’t leave you alone. Serves her right.”
Hans didn’t believe Monica for a second. He already knew the truth.
“Eleanor, if you ever lay a finger on her again, I won’t hesitate to make sure you lose a hand, too.”
His words were icy as he turned to leave.
“Hans, do you even know—” Eleanor tried to bring up Jordan, but Hans was already gone.
Eleanor’s composure cracked. She broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
Monica tried to comfort her, but Eleanor just kept crying.
Finally, through her tears, she managed to choke out the real reason for her distress: “Three hundred million.”
Monica stared at her in shock. “Three hundred million? Has Jordan lost his mind?”
“He doesn’t care about me at all. What am I supposed to do?” Eleanor clenched her fists. “Jordan’s gone crazy over who I am.”
She didn’t dare mention what had happened all those years ago.
Monica thought for a moment, then her eyes lit up. “I might have an idea.”
…

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