CH.3

DELLA

The bus ride back to Thornfield was a slow, agonizing descent into hell.

I sat near the rear, squeezed into the corner seat by the fogged glass, clutching the Admiral's umbrella across my lap like a weapon.

The radiator beneath my seat hissed violently, blowing dry, stale heat over my bare, waterlogged legs, but it did nothing to warm the ice settled deep inside my bones.

My thin white linen dress, still saturated and clinging like a cold second skin, left almost nothing to the imagination.

Water dripped steadily from my hem, forming a puddle around my bare ankles.

The fabric clung to every curve, every scar, every vulnerable inch of my body.

Every eye on the crowded bus was fixed on me.

The men stared with undisguised hunger, their eyes lingering over the translucent fabric plastered to my waist, my chest, the faint outline of my undergarments.

One man in a business suit didn't even bother hiding his interest, leaning forward in his seat, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

I pressed myself as close to the cold window as possible, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.

The glass bit into my bare shoulder, but I'd rather freeze than give these men another second of entertainment.

"Disgusting!" a sharp, rasping voice cut through the hum.

A middle-aged woman sitting directly across the aisle, wrapped in a thick wool coat and clutching a grocery bag to her chest, glared at me with sneering disgust.

She tapped the arm of the woman next to her and pointed openly at my damp clothes.

"No shame at all," the woman spat, loud enough for half the bus to hear. "Parading around practically naked in broad daylight. Shameless hussies like her are the exact reason marriages fall apart. Coming out looking like a cheap vixen, practically begging for married men to look."

"Probably coming from some sordid affair," the grey-haired woman beside her added. "Look at her. Soaked through, no coat, no decency. What kind of respectable woman ends up like that?"

A quiet chorus of murmurs and tuts echoed down the rows.

A few older women nodded in bitter agreement, shooting me glances of pure disdain.

A teenage boy two seats ahead pulled out his phone and angled it toward me.

"Don't you dare," I trembled with rage.

The boy smirked, lowering the phone only slightly, his eyes still locked on my chest.

A man in a construction vest sitting near the front turned completely around in his seat.

"Hey, sweetheart," he called out with mockery. "You need a ride home? I've got a warm truck and a blanket in the back."

Cruel, mocking laughter rippled through the bus.

My throat constricted. I wasn't a vixen. I wasn't shameless.

I was a married woman who'd nearly frozen to death in a rainstorm trying to deliver my husband's uniform. A husband who'd just called me a pathetic charity case and ripped away the only coat that had offered me protection.

A single, burning tear threatened to spill over my lower lashes and my lower lip quivered.

I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands until the sharp pain grounded me.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, taking a slow, shaky breath and tilted my head up, fixing my gaze squarely on the dark window.

The bus lurched forward, hitting a pothole, and my hip screamed in protest. The pain was so sharp I had to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.

Fresh tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back furiously.

"Probably on drugs," another woman muttered from somewhere behind me. "Look at how pale she is. Probably one of those addicts from the shelters."

"Or a prostitute," someone else added in a stage whisper. "They're always hanging around the naval base, trying to trap young officers."

My hands trembled violently around the umbrella handle. I wanted to scream. I wanted to stand up and tell them all exactly what had happened. That I'd been trying to help my husband, that I'd been abandoned in the rain and treated like garbage by the very people who were supposed to love me.

But I didn't.

I sat in silence, enduring every stare, every whisper, every cruel assumption.

The minutes crawled by like hours.

The construction worker kept turning around to leer at me, the teenage boy kept his phone half-raised, the women kept whispering hateful comments about me.

When the bus finally shuddered to a stop near the gates of the Whitmore estate, I stood on trembling legs.

The moment I rose, a fresh wave of cold air hit my damp dress, and I shivered so violently my teeth chattered.

"Good riddance," the grey-haired woman muttered as I limped past.

I didn't look back as I stepped off the bus into the cold night air, and the doors hissed shut behind me.

The Whitmore property was an expansive, gated compound nestled in Ivywood, one of Thornfield's most exclusive neighborhoods.

At its center stood the main mansion, a towering classical structure blazing with wealth from every window.

As I limped past the grand driveway, I saw my father-in-law's black sedan parked near the entrance alongside Mireille's sleek coupe.

Laughter and the soft clinking of crystal echoed faintly from the formal dining room.

I kept walking, taking the narrow stone path that wound around the side of the main house toward the far edge of the property.

Tucked away behind a manicured hedge stood the guest house.

It was a small, two-story annex that'd originally been built to house staff.

When Theron and I got married two years ago, Mireille had declared that the young couple would live in the guest house "temporarily, until Della proves she can manage a real household without deteriorating her health."

Two years had passed and the temporary arrangement had become a permanent exile.

I unlocked the front door and stepped into the dark, silent house.

The air inside was freezing.

Mireille kept the central heating locked to a conservative baseline from the main house's control panel to prevent "unnecessary waste."

I flipped the light switch, illuminating the sterile white living room.

Everything in the space had been selected by Mireille: the stiff linen sofa, the sharp-edged glass coffee table, the pale grey rugs.

There wasn't a single personal object belonging to me in the room, save for one item resting on the mantlepiece. A silver-framed photograph of my late mother, standing arm-in-arm with a younger, smiling Mireille at a summer gala decades ago.

I stared at my mother's laughing face. Gloria Ravelle had been a woman of warmth, radiance, and fierce independence.

She'd built a renowned art foundation and together with my father, left behind a massive trust fund intended to secure my future.

Now, that entire inheritance was legally controlled by Mireille Whitmore, who served as the sole executor under the guise of "protecting damaged Della from financial exploitation."

I limped into the bathroom, stripping off my soaked dress.

In the full-length mirror, I surveyed my body under the harsh vanity lights.

My skin was pruney, my ribs slightly visible, and a long surgical scar ran from my right hip down toward my thigh.

The physical signature of the drunk driver who'd crossed the center line five years ago, killing both my parents instantly and crushing my body into the passenger seat.

Theron had been my physical therapist during my six-month stay in the specialized rehabilitation wing at Thornfield General Hospital.

He'd been patient then, firm yet gentle, holding my waist as I took my first agonizing steps.

I'd mistaken his professional possessiveness for devotion. I'd mistaken my own overwhelming debt of survival for love.

Tears spilled relentlessly down my cheeks as I turned on the shower, letting the scalding water blast over my sore muscles until my skin turned bright pink.

I washed away the smell of the rain, the naval base, the bus, the leering stares, and the lingering humiliation of Theron's cruel words.