The sky was still bruised with the last shades of night when Eleanor quietly pulled the door shut behind her. The soft click of the lock echoed like a farewell, and she froze for a moment, listening. Inside, Gabriel's apartment was still wrapped in sleep, curtains drawn, his breathing even. He would not wake—not yet, not when dawn still lingered.
She stood for a heartbeat in the dim hallway, pressing her forehead against the cold wood of the door. Her chest ached with something unnameable, the kind of ache that came when leaving behind a part of herself. Then she straightened, adjusted her old canvas bag on her shoulder, and walked away.
The streets stretched long before her, the city only beginning to stir. She walked the distance home every time, not daring to take a taxi; even if she could afford one, she feared being seen, her shadow beside Gabriel's too damning. His world sparkled, untouchable, built on lights and camera flashes. Hers was soil, grit, sweat. The two must never meet.
By the time she reached her small flat, the horizon was washed in pale gold. Her room was no more than a box: one window, a narrow bed, a wooden chair she had picked up from the roadside, a tiny stove with two burners. Eleanor let her bag fall and sat down, clutching her knees for a moment, catching her breath. The scent of him still lingered on her skin. She closed her eyes, recalling how he had held her—possessive, hungry—but how he never kissed her with tenderness anymore.
Still, she smiled faintly. He had smiled in his sleep last night. That was enough.
---
The supermarket was loud with the rustle of carts and the hum of refrigerators. Eleanor tied her apron quickly and began stacking the shelf of rice bags. The weight bent her back, but she worked swiftly, knowing she had only a few hours before she had to rush to her second job at the restaurant.
Her hands ached, roughened by constant lifting and washing, but when a customer asked her for help, she smiled—soft, genuine. Gabriel once told her she had the kind of smile that could outshine spotlights. The memory warmed her like sunlight in winter.
At her lunch break, she opened her worn notebook. Pages filled with lyrics lay within, lines she had scribbled late at night, whispering them to herself before slipping them into Gabriel's hands. She didn't keep copies. They belonged to him now. If his songs soared high enough to reach the stars, then in some way, she would be there too.
Her pay was meager. She kept strict accounts—rent, food, after her parents died, Gabriel is her only family, her love. And then, a small envelope hidden in the drawer: savings for concert tickets. The cheapest seats, always far at the back, but close enough for her to see him alive on stage. When the crowd screamed his name, Eleanor whispered it under her breath, as though she alone truly knew the boy beneath the glittering mask.
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Gabriel's POV
He loved her. At least, he thought he did. Not in the dazzling, fireworks way his fans dreamed about, but in something quieter, darker, rooted in habit.
Eleanor was always there. She had been there since school, when his parents had scoffed at his foolish dream of music, when every door had slammed in his face. Eleanor had listened, had written words for him, had believed with a faith so fierce it almost frightened him.
And now, he was Gabriel—the idol, the star, the name on everyone's lips. He had lights, cameras, screaming crowds. Yet, when he closed the door of his apartment, it was Eleanor waiting in silence.
She never complained. She let him have her body as he wished, quiet, pliant. That was what he needed. No sparks, no mess. Just someone who belonged only to him. He could press her against the mattress and watch her eyes close, not from ecstasy but from surrender, and he would feel whole.
And the songs—God, the songs. The company praised him for his genius, for the words that cut deep, that seemed to come from some hidden well of emotion. He only smiled, took the credit. But he knew. Every line was Eleanor's blood, her heart carved into letters.
He would never let her go. Never. Even if someday he married the perfect, polished woman the industry demanded, Eleanor would remain. His secret. His dirty, beautiful secret.
---
Back in her flat that evening, Eleanor sat by the window, watching the city lights flicker. She held her concert envelope in her lap, fingers tracing the paper. Soon, she would have enough for another ticket. To be in that crowd, to see him shine, to hear words she had written sung to thousands—it was worth every bruise on her palms, every hour of aching feet.
But tonight, exhaustion pressed heavy on her bones. She leaned back, closing her eyes, memories drifting. She saw Gabriel as a boy again, clutching a battered guitar, trembling as he played. She saw herself cheering him on, slipping coins she had saved into his hands so he could buy strings. She saw his tears the first time he was rejected, and how she had kissed them away, whispering that one day the world would kneel before his voice.
And now they had.
Eleanor smiled in the dark. Her world was small, her bed cold, her hands raw from endless work. But somewhere in the city, Gabriel was singing words she had written, his face aglow under the stage lights.
And that was enough.
For him, she could endure anything.
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✨ End of Chapter Four