Chapter twelve

Chapter twelve

It had been three days and she hadn't returned his letter. To her, she needed a break from all of them for a while, even Philip.

Sighing, Monica tossed stones into water and watched the ripples die slowly. As much as she enjoyed painting fear in the faces of the ladies, pain still stung her somewhere, one she hated to admit when she saw them. It all reminded her of the image years ago.

When her small figure hid under the King-sized bed, Forland Carlovette aimed a rifle at her father, snarling out words that were drowned by her muffled cries.

Still, she had prayed for the last Duke of Anfield not to shoot him, one prayer she knew was impossible to be answered. And within a split of a second, Forland had pulled the trigger.

She still laid there, shivering under the bed and blocking her ears as a child she was, watching the man who gave birth to her crumple to the ground. The image made her smile in nostalgia. Then she tossed another stone into the water.

It only took days