CH.5

DELLA

The sharp buzz of my mobile phone cut through the stifling quiet of the annex just past one in the afternoon.

I didn't need to check the display. Only one person called with such rigid, demanding punctuality.

It had been barely four hours since Mireille had delivered her cruel monologue in the kitchen and walked out.

"Hayes is bringing the car around to the annex." Mireille's voice came through the speaker before I could even part my lips, smooth and entirely unbothered. "Be outside in ten minutes. That silk you ruined yesterday was bespoke, and it cost a small fortune. Now we have to waste an entire afternoon sourcing a gown for an anniversary dinner you threw a tantrum over."

I sat on the edge of the mattress, picking at a loose thread on my oversized shirt.

Mireille made it sound so effortless, twisting the entire miserable event around until I was the only villain in the room.

I stared at the red end-call button on the screen. I wanted nothing more than to hang up, but the suffocating reality of the Whitmore debts kept my fingers frozen.

The hypocrisy was sickening, but it was just another calculated move from a woman who knew exactly how to twist the knife.

"I have two seminars to prepare for today, Mireille." I pressed my fingertips against my throbbing temple.

"Cancel them!" Mireille's tone left no room for debate. "The Whitmore family's public image doesn't take a back seat to your coursework. Ten minutes, Delphine."

With that, the line clicked dead.

I stared up at the grey ceiling beams of the guest house, my chest rising and falling in slow, shallow increments.

Every instinct urged me to turn the phone face down, lock the deadbolt, and let the afternoon burn away.

But a refusal would simply bring Theron marching down the gravel path with a list of hissed grievances about duty and gratitude, or Mireille would freeze the monthly stipend meant for my university tuition.

I forced myself up, taking a quick, hot shower to soothe my screaming hip joint, and pulled on a dark wool sheath dress with a high collar.

It was heavy, simple, and meant to be protective. Yet, even the thick fabric struggled to conceal the natural swell of my chest and the soft, generous curve of my hips.

In the foggy bathroom mirror, my honey-colored eyes stared back, exhausted but striking, set within smooth, glowing brown skin that refused to lose its warmth despite my dismal surroundings.

I pulled my dark, unruly curls back into a severe knot at the nape of my neck, attempting to erase any trace of softness.

At exactly one-fifteen, the low, heavy rumble of the Whitmores' silver Mercedes Maybach echoed across the gravel driveway.

I stepped out into the crisp autumn air, pulling my black trench coat tightly around my waist.

Hayes, the family's driver, stood by the rear passenger door.

He was a stoic man in his early sixties with a crisp grey uniform and lined, stern features.

As I approached, his pale eyes flicked toward me, holding a familiar, quiet flicker of pity.

Hayes had driven for the family long enough to remember when Gloria Ravelle was alive.

To him, I wasn't a disgraceful burden; I was a hostage, a vibrant, beautiful girl slowly being suffocated in a power-hungry family.

He offered a small, respectful nod, shielding me from the wind as I climbed inside.

I slid into the spacious rear cabin, immediately enveloped by the suffocating blend of leather and Mireille's signature tuberose perfume.

Mireille sat beside me, immaculate in her cream cashmere suit, not even looking my way.

"The coastal galleria, Hayes," Mireille instructed.

"Yes, ma'am," Hayes murmured, putting the heavy car smoothly into drive.

As the Mercedes glided down the private drive, Mireille's eyes finally slid toward me, critically assessing my posture. "You're slumping, Delphine. If you continue to carry yourself like a wounded animal tonight, people will think terribly of our family."

"The rain yesterday aggravated the nerve graft." I stared straight ahead through the tinted window. "It will settle."

"It would settle faster if you spent fewer hours hunched over textbooks trying to psychoanalyze strangers." Mireille smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. "You wallow in your misery, entirely blind to the sacrifices made for you.

Theron gave up six months of his life to spoon-feed you and hold you while you learned to walk again. He delayed his naval recruitment, sacrificing his own career trajectory, just to ensure you didn't rot in some municipal care facility."

I swallowed the bitter lump forming in my throat, my gaze fixed on the passing pine trees.

"The absolute least you could do is show a shred of gratitude." Mireille's manicured fingers tapped a sharp rhythm on her leather handrest. "He deserves a happy home. He deserves a wife who obeys him and elevates his standing in society, not an ingrate who creates public scenes at military checkpoints. Especially considering your... condition..."

A cold, sidelong glance accompanied her next words. "He overlooks the fact that you can't even fulfill the basic duty of bearing his children, Delphine. You owe him your total devotion."

Mireille's words landed exactly where they were meant to, hitting the one piece of grief I rarely let myself touch.

The permanent damage the crash had left behind.

I kept my mouth shut.

My knuckles rested lightly on my lap, running a slow, rhythmic circle over the plain gold band on my right hand with my thumb.

I stared hard at the back of Hayes's headrest, blinking furiously to keep the hot sting of tears from spilling over my lashes.

I wasn't going to cry. Not where Mireille could see it and log it as a victory.

But the worst part that twisted like a knife in my gut was Mireille wasn't lying. Theron had done all of it.

When I was just a broken, grieving girl waking up to a world without my parents, Theron had been the only constant.

He was the one who patiently spoon-fed me ice chips when my jaw was wired shut. He'd held me up when my atrophied legs gave out on the physical therapy mats, catching me every single time I fell.

He really had pushed back his naval recruitment for six months, trading his own career momentum for endless hours in uncomfortable hospital chairs.

That was the trap.

How do you fight back against the man who put you back together?

Every time Theron snapped at me, every time he looked at my scars with that thinly veiled pity or left me alone in the drafty guest house, my mind dragged me right back to the ICU.

The guilt was heavy and paralyzing.

It was why I forgave the cruelty. Why I swallowed the neglect and sat quietly through his mother's daily insults.

I owed him a debt of survival I could never actually repay.

I was a burden he had chosen to carry, and taking the abuse in silence was the only way I knew how to pay him back.

"Furthermore, Theron took Admiral Cavendish's coat back to the command pavilion early this morning." Mireille smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt, smoothly shifting gears now that the emotional damage was done.

"Thankfully, the Admiral was already occupied with tactical briefings, so the garment was merely left with his secretary. You should thank providence. If Theron had been forced to face that man directly over your little stunt, the consequences for his promotion would have been disastrous."

She returned her focus to the winding coastal highway, where the grey fog was finally burning off the wet asphalt.

Ahead lay the lower outskirts of Ivywood, a quiet, leafy stretch bordered by dense pine groves.

Suddenly, a streak of mottled fur darted from the tall brush on the right shoulder.

Hayes let out a sharp hiss of breath, slamming his heavy boot onto the brake pedal.

The anti-lock brakes engaged with a violent stutter, throwing both of us forward against our seatbelts.

The heavy sedan skidded, tires biting hard into the asphalt, before jarring to a halt less than two feet from the small creature huddled on the double yellow line.