The CEO’s Unspoken Love (Eleanor and Derek) novel Chapter 129

Chapter 129

Derek POV

The amber liquid swirled in my glass as I stared at the skyline through Thomas’s penthouse windows. The city lights blurred against the falling snow, creating a hazy glow that matched my current emotional state.

“Just text her that you’re drunk,” Thomas suggested, refilling his own glass. “Women love taking care of men in vulnerable states. It

the perfect excuse to show up at her door.”

I shot him a withering look. “I’m not actually drunk, Thomas.”

“She doesn’t need to know that,” he countered with a grin. ‘Look, all I’m saying is that sometimes these complex relationship problems have simple solutions. A night of passion can remind you both what you’re fighting for.”

“That’s your solution to everything,” I said, setting down my barely touched whiskey. “Not everyone thinks as… simplistically as you

Thomas shrugged. “Hey, it works for me. Besides, what’s your brilliant plan? Standing outside her house like some lovesick

teenager?”

I didn’t answer because he was right. I didn’t have a plan beyond my desperate need to fix what I’d broken.

“Fine, I finally conceded. “But I’m not pretending to be drunk.”

Thomas took my phone and typed out a message: [Derek’s drunk. He keeps saying your name. Should I bring him to your place?]

“She’ll never fall for this, I muttered, watching him send the text.

The response came quickly: [Already divorced. Not my problem anymore.]

Thomas whistled low. “Ice cold. I like her even more now.”

I snatched my phone back, staring at her words. Divorced. The finality of it hit me harder than I expected. The papers were signed, the decree issued. Legally, Eleanor was no longer my wife. But in my heart, nothing had changed.

I’m going home, I announced, grabbing my coat.

To your empty apartment? Or to fight for your woman? Thomas challenged.

I paused at the door. ‘I don’t know if she wants me to fight for her.”

Then find out, he said simply.

D

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Chapter 129

The snow had blanketed Newton by the time I arrived at Eleanor’s Victorian house the next morning. I’d spent the night drafting

and deleting text messages, finally deciding on direct simplicity. Standing on her doorstep, the cold seeping through my cashmere

coat, I sent my first message:

[I’m outside your door.]

No response.

[I brought breakfast.]

Nothing.

My fingers hovered over the phone before typing: [If you don’t open the door, I’m going to stand in the middle of your street and

tell the whole neighborhood how I feel about you.]

Still silence. An elderly man walking his dog gave me a suspicious glance.

[Your neighbor is looking at me suspiciously.]

I waited another minute before the childish countdown: [I’m counting to ten. One…]

Before I could continue, I heard angry footsteps inside. The door flew open, revealing Eleanor in flannel pajamas, her hair tousled from sleep, eyes blazing with irritation. My heart stumbled at the sight of her.

“Go away,” she said, attempting to close the door.

I caught it with my hand. “I brought breakfast,” I repeated, holding up the bag from her favorite bakery.

‘Don’t think this means anything,” she warned, stepping back reluctantly. “I’m only doing this because I don’t want you to freeze to

death on my doorstep.

I smiled, unable to hide my satisfaction at having breached her defenses, however temporarily. As I stepped into the warmth of her home, I wondered how long it would take to convince her that I was worthy of a second chance.

For the next several days, I established a routine. Seven-thirty each morning, I waited outside her house with coffee. Each evening, I positioned myself across the street, watching for her return from work. It was borderline stalking, I knew, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“We’re divorced,” she reminded me on the third day, refusing to get into my car. “Please respect that reality.”

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The CEO’s Unspoken Love