Page 5 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)

Chapter Three

Eleanor Wang

I'm Eleanor Wang, punctuality personified—until today. It has been ten years, and my record has no tardy mark. I can't afford slip-ups as Patrick Murphy's PA—the real estate kingpin whose name is whispered with reverence and fear across London.

That bastard Matteo, with his love that chokes and pulls you under, forced my hand once.

Made me jump ship to New Zealand, clutching freedom like a lifeline.

Paid a fortune to breathe, to hide in the belly of a cargo vessel, steering me toward anonymity.

That's how I landed here, in this city of fog and shadows, where I became Patrick's right hand.

I flashback to our first encounter, the accidental collision outside a Soho pub.

Me, spewing apologies like a busted faucet; him, all charisma and tailored suit, offering solace in the shape of a glass.

My sob story poured out more accessible than the liquor, and before my buzz wore off, I was hired.

Cash is under the table, and there are no trails for prying eyes.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." My voice is ragged as I skid into Patrick's lion's den, his sanctuary of steel and leather. "Tube was a mess, coffee shop crammed to the rafters. Here's your bloody coffee."

His grip fastens around my wrist, stopping me cold. "El, chill out. You know I'm not bothered by this."

"I know," I snap back, guilt gnawing at my insides. I'm about to bolt when he reels me back in.

"El." His voice is a velvet command. "Sit. Drink with me. We need to talk."

Oh, hell. Anxiety coils tight in my gut, a familiar serpent. What have I cocked up now? Panic claws at my chest, fingernails dipped in dread. Maybe he's finally pissed about the lateness?

"Alright," I say, heart thudding a riotous beat. I drop onto the chair, my armor cracking. In this concrete jungle, you're either predator or prey, and I'll be damned if I show weakness—even to Patrick. But when the top dog wants a chat, you don't bare your fangs; you sit and listen.

Slouched in the leather that's molded to my form over years of crises and confessions, I eye Patrick across the expanse of his desk. It's an altar where he sacrifices sanity for success, and today, he looks ready to plead for mercy.

"What's up?" My voice cracks the silence between us like a whip. He squirms, and it's almost comical, this titan of London's skyline brought low by the mere thought of social schmoozing without his queen.

"El, I need you tonight." His plea is raw, etched with an urgency that sets my nerves alight. "Fundraiser. Aela's down with the flu; going stag is like chumming the waters."

I can't help but chuckle at the sheer horror sketched on his face. Poor bloke hates these dos more than a hangover on Monday. But I've been his shadow for years, stepping in when Aela can't. And he's spot-on—without her, he's fresh meat for the circling vultures in heels.

"Alright," I concede, already plotting the call to Yvonne. "How's Aela holding up?"

"Sniffles and pride. She won't be seen as anything less than the iron lady she is," he says, relief bleeding into his features now that I've agreed.

"Solid logic," I mused, recalling how the tabloid wolves had feasted on my gaunt frame last time, hinting at rehab stints and secret sorrows. They can spin their yarns; I'll stick to the shadows.

No Facebook, no mobile to claim as my own—I'm a ghost in this digital age, a whisper on the wind. Patrick's generosity keeps me invisible, his name shielding mine, his bank card fuelling my existence. He's the lifeline I cling to in the riptide that is my past.

And Aela, that angel? The first true mate I made here, brewing coffee and secrets in the same joint that nearly made me tardy today. Six months of lattes and hushed conversations before we traded digits. Not long after, I played Cupid, flinging her straight into Patrick's waiting arms.

A match made in heaven, they were. Both are privy to the chapters of my life that read more like a crime thriller than a fairytale.

But fame has a price tag; 'El' became a fixture in the gossip rags once Patrick's empire soared.

Niko, my flesh and blood, remains a phantom—no one knows of the boy who doesn't exist.

Except for Yvonne, our guardian angel in nanny form, paid for by Patrick's boundless generosity. Every penny I've bled for, yet he foots the bill for our survival. My days are a blur of appointments, errands, and events—all to keep the Murphy machine oiled and purring.

Niko, my world, schooled in our sanctum, far from prying eyes and probing questions.

Born in silence, swaddled in solitude, with only Aela by my side—no midwife, no records.

YouTube and sheer will saw us through the stormy birth.

I wouldn't recommend childbirth, let alone solo missions fuelled by internet tutorials.

But it was all for him—for Niko. To shield him from Matteo's reach, to cloak his existence in shadows. If Matteo ever discovers the life I've built from his ashes, it'll be more than just late coffees and missed tubes I'll worry about.

"Hey, El?" Patrick's voice snaps me back to the now. My fingers click like a metronome gone mad in front of my face. Reality check.

"Sorry," I mutter, shaking off memories like a wet dog. "Got lost in the past. "

He chuckles a sound that doesn't belong in this concrete jungle. "Get your butt to your desk and find something to wear tonight."

"Yep, will do!" I bolt from his office, the afterburn of urgency propelling me. At my desk, hands fly over the phone to dial Yvonne. "Yonnie, can you look after Niko tonight? Got roped into an event with Patrick."

"Of course, El." Yvonne's voice is a warm blanket, but her following words are a cold splash. "Maybe one of these days you'll snag a husband at one of these shindigs."

"Not gonna happen," I shoot back, a laugh slicing through. "Heart's been off the market for a decade. Maybe I'll reel in a one-night catch."

"Girl, if you're itching, my brother's been begging to be your scratch post." She's cackling now.

"Fuck off, hanging up now!" I growl, but there's a smirk tugging at my lips.

"Have fun, El." Her laughter follows me as I cut the call.

I dive into the next task—armor for tonight's battle. Bella Louise answers on the first ring, sweet and crisp. "Can I help you?"

"Morning, it's El here from Murphy’s Real Estate. Need my usual by 4 pm, got it?"

"Of course, El." The attendant's voice buzzes with excitement. "Just in—a black and gold gown, floor-length, tight sleeves, high neck. Your style."

"Perfect," I say, a plan forming. "Thanks." I hang up.

Bella Louise knows the drill. Eight years of dressing me for war.

They know every curve, every scar I hide beneath silk and sequins.

Tonight's no different. A sheath of shadows to blend into the night, gold to glint like a blade under chandelier light.

Power and control are stitched into every seam.

Running from Sydney fueled my insatiable craving for tattoos, an addiction that gripped me tightly.

My arms were already a canvas of ink, stretching from shoulders to wrists, each design a story of my escape.

London beckoned me next, where I surrendered to a sprawling masterpiece that began on my back and spilled onto my belly and ribs in scattered patterns.

Matteo's hand had meticulously etched every tattoo on my arms, binding me to him in ways I couldn't escape.

To conceal his artistry, long sleeves became my shield, even under the scorching summer sun.

Sacrificing comfort for secrecy, I bared short skirts instead, knowing Matteo's reach would falter as long as my arms remained hidden.

A decade of evasion taught me one harsh truth - no matter how far you run, fate has a way of catching up with you.