Elite by Maclaw

Chapter 8

It was late into the night, the sky a deep blanket of darkness pierced by the dim light of the stars. The estate was quiet, shadows creeping over the tall structures as the world seemed to still. Detective Frank Donovan sat in his modest study, his eyes scanning over papers scattered across his desk when the soft knock on his door echoed through the quiet. It was subtle, almost secretive, as if the visitor had no intention of being seen or heard.

Frank frowned and rose from his chair, his fingers flexing instinctively toward the revolver tucked away in his drawer. His steps were measured as he approached the door. When he opened it, he was met by the sight of Lady Eleanor Thornton, cloaked in dark satin, her sharp eyes gleaming under the dim glow of the hallway lanterns.

"Lady Thornton," Frank greeted, a hint of surprise in his voice. "What brings you here at such an hour?"

She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the air around her crackling with an aura of power and something darker, something seductive. She reached into the folds of her cloak and produced a bundle of torn letters, tossing them carelessly onto his desk.

"What's this?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at the letters before flicking back to her.

"The letters I've been receiving," she replied coolly, as if the act of her bringing them to him was nothing more than a casual errand.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "You should rather read them than tear them apart."

Eleanor's eyes glinted with cold defiance. "I will not be Reese's fool. These letters are meant to provoke me. To manipulate me into a corner. I will not allow it."

"You're scared," Frank observed, leaning against the desk, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes never left hers, reading every flicker of emotion on her face. "Why should I help you?"

Eleanor's lips curled into a small, predatory smile. She stepped closer, her presence filling the room like a shadow that couldn't be escaped. "Because, Frank," she whispered, her voice low, smooth like honey but with an edge of steel, "you don't want to be on the wrong side of this. The letters aren't just idle threats—they're the promises of something much darker."

Frank chuckled, the sound dark and humorless. "And why should I care about your problems, Eleanor? You've always thrived in your power, controlling the society around you. Now you come to me, at my door, asking for help?"

She stood tall, her expression unwavering despite the tension sparking between them. "I'm not asking for help," she corrected him sharply. "I'm asking for control. You know as well as I do that this... this writer, whoever they are, knows far too much. They know things they shouldn't. Things about me, about the Thorntons, about the whole elite society.."

Frank's eyes darkened, but he said nothing. Eleanor took a step closer, her eyes locked onto his. "You should care because if this person isn't stopped, they will unravel everything we've built. Everything you've built. Your wife would be so dissatisfied with your inaction..."
Frank's expression shifted in an instant, his jaw clenching hard as his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do not speak of my wife," he growled, his voice low and menacing. There was a flash of pain behind his eyes, but he quickly masked it with anger.

Eleanor didn't flinch, only raised an eyebrow. "Touchy subject, I see."

Frank's hand tightened around the edge of the desk as he took a breath, forcing the tension out of his muscles. "This isn't about my wife," he said stiffly. "But you're right about one thing—whoever this writer is, they're getting too close. They're in the shadows, pulling strings, and we're left dancing in the dark."

Lady Thornton's eyes gleamed with something dark, almost triumphant. She could sense she had struck a nerve, could feel the undercurrent of his anger mixed with his reluctance to help her. But she also knew Frank wasn't a man who liked being kept in the dark, and this writer, whoever they were, posed a threat to them all.