Chapter 5: Drawing Lines

~Bianca's POV~

"Bianca, what's this I'm hearing about you disrespecting Mum?"

Blinking slowly, I dragged myself out of the spiraling thought I'd been trapped in. Damien Sinclair. His name had been echoing in my head like a curse. But not now. There were more immediate devils at this table.

I lifted my gaze from the untouched food in front of me.

The dining room, with its six velvet chairs circling the glass table and the crystal chandelier above, looked as elegant and false as ever. A beautiful cage.

Nathan sat at the far end, arms crossed, brown eyes narrowed with self-righteous indignation. To his left—directly across from me—Cecelia, the master manipulator in pearls.

Normally, I would've sat beside him, smiling on cue, laughing when expected, and swallowing the poison they so generously served—literally. But not today. I'd taken the seat at the opposite end. And Nathan had noticed. Oh, he noticed.

The table was set with their usual flair—creamy mashed potatoes, perfectly glazed chicken, buttered green beans, and a bottle of wine that sparkled like temptation. Everything picture-perfect. Except I hadn't touched a thing. I didn't trust it anymore.

My eyes met his, then shifted to Cecelia—who dabbed dramatically at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Her lower lip trembled like a soap opera actress. Then, when she thought I wasn't watching, she smirked.

Just a flicker. But I saw it.

Ah. The crocodile tears again.

God, how many times had I fallen for that? Rushing to comfort her, only to be blamed. Nathan would yell, and she'd cling to him like the victim she never was.

Not this time.

"How do you mean?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

Nathan scoffed. "Mum said you were acting strange. The maid said you were... off. Mum went to check on you and you slammed the door in her face. She was trying to help, Bianca."

Of course. Twist the truth until the devil looks like a saint.

I clenched my fork until the silver bit into my skin. In my mind, I hurled it across the table. Right into Cecelia's smug little smirk. But I didn't. Yet.

Instead, I smiled. Polite. Controlled. Poison-laced.

"I already apologized," I said softly. "I had a nightmare. I panicked. I explained that."

"She's lying!" Cecelia suddenly cried, voice trembling, shoulders shaking like a wind-up doll. "See? She doesn't respect me! I told you!"

She sniffled, louder this time. Reveling in the spotlight like always.

Nathan's eyes darkened. "What's gotten into you today?" he asked sharply. "After everything Mum's done for you—this is how you behave?"

More like poison me slowly and smile while doing it.

But I didn't say that. I tilted my head instead and softened my voice. "It's not like that. I had a horrible nightmare. I panicked. I didn't mean to come off as rude."

That did it.

Nathan stilled. His lips parted slightly, and his brow furrowed. He didn't expect me to speak for myself. Bianca never spoke up. Bianca obeyed.

Cecelia gave a fresh sob, loud and forced.

Nathan's jaw tightened. "She didn't mention an apology." Then stared me dead in the eyes. "Get up. Kneel and apologize to Mum. Properly."

Cecelia gasped—too dramatically to be real. "Honey, no, please—it hasn't gotten to that…" she whimpered, eyes gleaming with false modesty.

But Nathan wasn't buying it. Or maybe he was just enjoying the control.

"No. She needs to own up. Actions have consequences."

And there it was—the flicker of triumph, marked by that subtle, cruel smile tugging at Cecelia's lips.

I froze. Over my cold, rotting corpse would I kneel before them again.

Maintaining eye contact, I let my voice break through the tension. "No."

The word rang out loudly.

"I've already apologized. I won't repeat myself. And I won't kneel."

Silence.

The kind that grates against your skin.

Even the maids at the corners of the room stopped moving, wide-eyed and frozen with shock.

Cecelia gasped like I'd just cursed the Holy Spirit and burst into tears again, rushing out of the room like a martyr.

Nathan's expression shifted from disbelief to pure rage.

He rose so quickly, that his chair screeched across the marble. "Look what you've done!" he roared, storming around the table. "You ungrateful—"

His hand gripped my arm, yanking me to my feet with a force that made my breath seize.

"You're going to apologize. Now!" he growled, dragging me toward the stairs like some angry shepherd.

I struggled. "Let me go, Nathan! You're hurting me!"

The maids remained rooted, helpless, and terrified.

My slippers scraped the floor as I resisted. "Stop! Let go!"

Finally, I wrenched my arm free, stumbling back with a wince. My wrist throbbed, but I stood tall.

"I said I already apologized. And I'm done."

He stared at me like I was a stranger.

And that was exactly what I wanted.

Because I wasn't the woman he married.

Turning on my heel, I stormed toward the front door. My heart was pounding, but my steps were steady. I grabbed the handle.

Opened the door.

Cold air met my face as I stepped outside. And just before the door closed behind me, I heard his sharp and furious voice yell, "You better not come back until you've dropped whatever evil spirit has gotten into you—and you're ready to ask Mum for forgiveness!"

I smiled to myself as I walked away.

Not in this lifetime.

*****

I didn't know why my feet brought me here.

One minute, I was walking. The next, I stood before a black wrought-iron gate, the cemetery sign faded and rusted above it. My slippers met the soft earth as I stepped through, the cold air whispering across the rows of stone markers.

I hadn't come when they buried him.

Not when they lowered his casket.

Not when the priest droned out hollow prayers and people who never really knew him wept for show.

I hadn't come.

Because I was too busy playing house. Too wrapped up in lies wrapped with ribbons, too high on the illusion of love to remember what real love looked like.

How pathetic.

A gust of wind swept past as I stopped before the familiar grave.

Harold M. Calloway.

Loving Father. Fierce Protector. Gone Too Soon.

My eyes burned, and I blinked fast, refusing to cry. But I did.

God, I did.

My fingers clenched tighter around the small bouquet of white lilies—his favorite. I had no right to bring them. No right to stand here after everything. But here I was, with trembling lips and swollen eyes, too late and too broken to fix what I ruined.

I dropped to my knees on the cold, wet ground.

"Hi, Father," I choked, voice cracking as I laid the flowers down on the stone. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

A tear slid down my cheek, then another. I pressed my hand to my lips, kissed my fingers, and gently pressed them to his name.

"I'll avenge you," I whispered in a shaky voice. "I promise. I'll get you the justice you deserve. For everything."

More silent and endless tears. I didn't wipe them away at first—I just let them fall, letting myself feel something other than rage for the first time since my rebirth.

Eventually, I stood. My knees ached, but my heart even more so.

I turned and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand. I didn't know where I was going next. I just knew I had to move. I had to keep going.

As I made my way toward the exit, the sound of chaos hit me.

Shouts.

Running.

Cameras clicking furiously.

Paparazzi.

I paused just behind a marble angel statue and peered out.

They were everywhere—swarming like bees—flashing bulbs and shouting over one another. I watched them chase toward a parked car a few feet from the cemetery gate.

A sleek black Aston Martin Valkyrie. Custom-plated. Tinted windows. Power humming beneath the hood like a sleeping beast.

It hadn't moved.

I frowned, confused. Why would a car like that be parked here?

Quickly pulling up my scarf, I adjusted my veil and sunglasses. The last thing I needed was to be recognized. Bianca Calloway was still a name the tabloids devoured.

I stepped out and tapped the shoulder of a breathless female paparazzi running past.

"Hey—what's going on?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

She barely paused. "Damien Sinclair!" she panted, pointing ahead. "Today's the day he landed back in New York. After years abroad. He's officially taking over Sinclair Industries. That's his car—but it stopped, like, twenty minutes ago and hasn't moved since. We're hoping to catch a glimpse—"

And she was gone again, swallowed up by the crowd.

Damien Sinclair.

Of course.

Today was the day. It all clicked as faint memories surfaced—this was the day he arrived back in New York in my past life.

But… why here?

I stood there frozen as the puzzle tried to piece itself together in my head. None of it made sense. From what I remember, Damien was precise. He didn't just show up anywhere.

I took a cautious step back, mind still racing, when someone collided into me—hard.

The impact knocked the air from my lungs as we both crashed to the ground. My glasses flew off. My veil slid halfway down my face.

"Watch where you're—" I stopped.

The man groaned beside me, propping himself up with one strong arm. His veil and sunglasses had fallen too.

And as he looked up…

Time seemed to stop as a familiar pair of icy blue eyes locked onto mine.