Chapter 2 - The House on the Cliff
The examination room was not a hospital ward, but a private medical suite on the ground floor of Michael Anders’s sprawling Newport estate. Dr. Sarah Vance, a trusted pediatrician and family physician who had known Michael since his own troubled childhood, closed her medical bag with a quiet snap.
She looked across the room at Eleanor, who sat on the edge of a velvet chaise lounge, holding Hope in her lap while Grace and Faith colored quietly at a mahogany writing desk nearby.
“The girls are malnourished, but resilient,” Dr. Vance said, her voice low enough that the children couldn’t hear. “Fatigue, vitamin deficiencies, and bruises consistent with chronic stress and minor falls. Nothing broken. But you, Eleanor...”
Dr. Vance paused, her eyes shifting to the fading purple bruises along Eleanor’s jawline and collarbone—injuries inflicted by Lydia Mercer just hours earlier, compounded by months of physical intimidation.
“I have a cracked rib, don’t I?” Eleanor asked flatly.
“Yes. And signs of sustained physical overexertion. You’ve been running on empty for years,” Dr. Vance replied, pulling a prescription pad from her pocket. “I’m prescribing rest, proper nutrition, and pain management. More importantly, I’m documenting everything. If you intend to press charges or fight for full custody protection away from the Mercers, this medical record will be vital.”
Eleanor stared down at her hands, her fingers intertwined tightly with Hope’s small fingers. “Custody? Lydia told me she would take them from me. She said a court would see a penniless widow with no job and declare me unfit.”
“Lydia Mercer is accustomed to buying laws and silencing people,” a voice said from the doorway.
Michael stood leaning against the wood-paneled doorframe. He had changed out of his blood-spattered suit into a dark cashmere sweater and slacks. His expression was solemn, devoid of the cold corporate armor he usually wore in public.
“She won't buy this court,” Michael said quietly. “My legal team is already securing emergency restraining orders across Rhode Island. The Mercers will not set foot near this property.”
Dr. Vance looked between Michael and Eleanor, a knowing, gentle smile touching her lips. She packed her equipment and walked toward the door. “I’ll leave the prescriptions with Evelyn. Make sure she eats something substantial tonight, Michael.”
“I will, Sarah. Thank you.”
As the doctor left, the room fell into a heavy, contemplative silence.
Hope, having finished her coloring book, rubbed her sleepy eyes and yawned. “Mommy, are we staying in this castle forever?”
Eleanor stroked her daughter’s soft hair. “Just for a little while, sweetie.”
“Forever sounds better,” Faith mumbled from the desk, not looking up from her drawing of a blue horse. “There’s no screaming here.”
Michael’s chest tightened at the girl’s words. He stepped into the room, kneeling down until he was at eye level with Faith.
“You never have to listen to screaming in this house again,” Michael promised, his voice steady and absolute. “Evelyn has prepared rooms for you upstairs. They have big windows overlooking the ocean. You can watch the ships go by.”
Grace looked up from her desk, her dark eyes sharp and analytical, much like her mother’s. “Why are you doing this, Mr. Anders? Rich men don't just rescue maids out of charity.”
Eleanor flushed with embarrassment. “Grace, that’s rude—”
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“No, it’s a fair question,” Michael interrupted gently, meeting the eight-year-old’s gaze without flinching. Grace had every reason to be suspicious of men; the world had taught her that protection usually came with a hidden price tag. “When I was your age, Grace, my father walked out on my mother and me. We lived in a cramped apartment where the heat barely worked. I remember what it felt like to be cold, and I remember what it felt like when powerful people looked right through us.”
He stood up, looking at Eleanor. “Nobody looks through you in this house. Not anymore.”
