Chapter 20: Breaking Eleanor

Two days later, dressed in a sharp, professional skirt suit that masked the raw, aching body beneath—a tailored black blazer and knee-length pencil skirt, paired with a crisp white blouse, the top button undone to hint at control laced with danger, and polished black stilettos that clicked with authority—I drove Jessica to her mother’s pristine suburban home. Jessica sat silent beside me, dressed in a simple but expensive dress, a pale lavender chiffon number that flowed softly to her knees, the fabric clinging to her still-soft post-birth curves with a delicate, almost innocent elegance. The dress had thin spaghetti straps, exposing her pale shoulders, and a subtle V-neck that hinted at her vulnerability. Around her neck hung a small silver locket, a dainty piece that seemed to weigh heavy with unspoken memories, and her wrists bore no adornment, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. Her feet were clad in low, nude ballet flats, scuffed slightly at the toes, practical yet understated, reflecting her subdued state. Her hair was pulled back into a loose, messy bun, strands escaping to frame her pale, drawn face, enhancing the contrast between her quiet dread and the polished veneer of her childhood home. My pussy throbbed under my skirt, a dull ache from the persuasion two nights ago, but my mind was sharp, focused on the leverage I needed to silence Eleanor’s interference.

Her mother, Eleanor, greeted us at the door, a vision of mature allure that could stop a room cold. She was a voluptuous woman in her late 40s, her curves wrapped in a silk blouse of deep emerald green that clung to her full breasts, the fabric shimmering with every breath, the top two buttons undone to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage framed by a delicate gold chain with a teardrop emerald pendant nestled just above her bust. A form-fitting black pencil skirt hugged her hips, ending just above the knee with a subtle side slit that accentuated the sway of her walk, teasing the edge of a lace-trimmed stocking. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, framing a face that carried the kind of beauty that aged like fine wine—sharp cheekbones, full lips painted a deep crimson, and eyes that sparkled with a knowing, sultry confidence. She wore small diamond stud earrings that caught the light with every turn of her head, and a thin gold bracelet adorned her left wrist, jingling softly as she gestured. Her feet were encased in sleek black patent leather pumps with a modest three-inch heel, the sharp points adding a commanding edge to her elegance, each step a calculated display of power. She smelled of expensive perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and musk, her presence radiating a magnetic desirability that made the air feel charged. Her gaze flicked to Jessica’s still-soft belly, then to me, her eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and challenge as she assessed the unexpected figure beside her daughter.

“Jessica, darling,” Eleanor purred, her voice a low, velvety caress that carried an effortless warmth, her full lips curving into a smile that was both welcoming and provocative. “And ... Sheriff Davis. What a surprise.” Her gaze lingered on my badge, a playful glint in her hazel eyes, before sweeping over my form, pausing on my legs with a slow, appreciative once-over that felt like a challenge. Her confidence was palpable, a woman who knew her allure and wielded it like a weapon, even in the face of uncertainty.

We moved to the living room, a room of stiff furniture and untouched surfaces, reeking of old money and curated perfection. Jessica sat on the edge of a chair, silent, her gaze fixed on her hands, the lavender dress pooling slightly around her thighs, her ballet flats pressed flat against the polished hardwood floor. Eleanor perched opposite me, her posture relaxed yet deliberate, one leg crossed over the other, the slit in her skirt revealing a glimpse of smooth thigh and the sheer black stocking beneath as she leaned forward slightly, her presence commanding the room, the emerald pendant glinting with her movement. She launched into her usual tirade—the disgrace, the scandal, the necessity of the marriage for the twins’ future, her voice smooth but edged with determination. “He’s offering you a way out, Jessica! A chance for those babies to have a name, a family! His family is powerful, respectable! Do you understand what you’re risking by refusing him? By keeping this ... this secret?” Her eyes flicked to my belly, then back to Jessica’s, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips as if she relished the game of appearances.

“The secret is safe, Eleanor,” I cut in, my voice low, cutting through her poised delivery. I leaned forward, my skirt riding up slightly, showing a hint of bare thigh to match the challenge in her gaze. My badge felt heavy against my chest, a symbol of the law I bent, the power I wielded. “But Leon’s network ... they’re not safe. They’re dangerous. And your connection to Mayor Johnson ... it makes you a potential target. A vulnerability.”

Eleanor’s smirk faltered, her hazel eyes sharpening with a flicker of genuine concern, though her composure held firm. “Leon? What are you talking about? Caldwell ... he’s involved in nothing illegal!” Her voice retained its sultry edge, but there was a tension in her frame now, her fingers tightening around the armrest of her chair, the gold bracelet catching the light as it shifted on her wrist.

“His name came up in Daniels’ ledgers,” I stated, my voice flat, cold, recalling the November 1993 arrest that tied Caldwell to the murder web. “Tied to murder. Tied to Leon’s operations. If Leon’s allies dig, if they see you pushing Jessica, drawing attention ... they could use you. To get to Jessica. To get to the babies. To get to me.” I let the implication hang in the air. Your involvement, your polished perfection, could put you in the crosshairs of a far bigger threat than social scandal.