CHAPTER 68

LET THEM SCHEME..

The evening sky over the Vandell estate was painted in strokes of violet and fading gold, the hush of twilight settling like a shroud over the gardens that only hours ago had been alive with chatter and power games. Now, the house seemed quiet, but silence in the Vandell world was always deceptive. Beneath it, tensions moved like currents, pulling in different directions.

Carmen sat in her private lounge, the scent of sandalwood perfuming the air. Her glass of wine gleamed ruby red in the lamplight as she twirled it absently, eyes fixed on the ornate fire dancing in the hearth. Across from her, Obetta fidgeted, still flushed with anger.

“You should have seen her,” Obetta hissed, leaning forward, her voice sharp with indignation. “Kate dismissed me as though I were a fool. And then then she turned around and praised Abigail without saying the words outright. Do you know how humiliating that was? Me, scolded like a child in her presence!”

Carmen’s lips curled in the faintest scowl. She had already heard enough from the gossip channels circling high society; Obetta’s failure was hardly news. What annoyed her most was not that Abigail had managed to hold her own, but that Obetta was sitting here complaining rather than learning.

“You speak too much of humiliation,” Carmen said coolly, setting her glass down. Her voice was smooth, controlled, the kind that could cut without raising its pitch. “If Kate dismissed you, it was not because Abigail defeated you. It was because you allowed yourself to become predictable.”

Obetta bristled, her nails drumming the armrest of her chair. “Predictable? I was defending this family’s honor against an interloper”

“No,” Carmen interrupted sharply. Her eyes glittered in the firelight. “You were defending your pride. And pride, Obetta, makes you sloppy. Kate does not reward sloppiness.”

The words struck Obetta like a slap, and for a moment, silence stretched between them. She looked down at her hands, seething but unable to argue.

Carmen rose, gliding toward the tall windows that looked out onto the estate’s vast lawns. Her silhouette was regal, commanding. “Abigail is not yet secure,” she said, more to herself than to Obetta. “Kate is testing her. Luke admires her boldness, yes, but admiration fades. All it takes is one mistake, one mis-step and Abigail will crumble. That is where you must strike.”

Obetta lifted her head, hope flickering in her eyes. “Then you mean… you will help me bring her down?”

Carmen turned slowly, her gaze piercing. “Help you? No. I will guide you. But make no mistake, Obetta this is not about you. This is about protecting what belongs to the Vandells. Abigail’s rise is… inconvenient. If Kate begins to truly admire her, it will change balances we have carefully maintained. Do you understand?”

Obetta swallowed hard and nodded. She understood, at least enough to obey.

Carmen approached her, her hand resting briefly on Obetta’s shoulder. “If you want to redeem yourself, you will listen. You will stop whining, stop charging blindly. You will watch Abigail. Learn her weaknesses. Every woman has them. And when the time is right, you will expose her. But do it quietly, elegantly. Kate will not tolerate pettiness. If you make Abigail stumble in a way that looks accidental… Kate herself may remove her.”

A slow smile curved Obetta’s lips. For the first time since the luncheon, she felt a thrill of purpose. “I can do that,” she whispered.

“Good,” Carmen said softly, releasing her shoulder. “Then prove you are still useful.”

The fire crackled between them, sealing their uneasy alliance.

Upstairs in the manor, Kate Vandell stood at her writing desk, the glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the room. In her hand was a fountain pen, poised over a sheet of fine paper.

She had dismissed her maids for the night; this task was hers alone. With practiced elegance, she began to draft a list of names women of influence, some allies, some adversaries. She was arranging another gathering, though this one would be more intimate than the luncheon. A private evening of conversation, art, and subtle maneuvering.

At the center of her thoughts was Abigail.

Kate would never admit admiration openly, not even to herself in so many words. Admiration was a dangerous thing; it softened one’s edge. But she could not deny what she had seen. Abigail had survived the luncheon, not merely endured it. She had absorbed every barb, redirected every insult, and emerged unbroken. That alone set her apart from countless others who had faltered in less hostile company.

Still, Kate was not convinced. One strong showing did not guarantee endurance. Abigail needed to be tested further, in an environment where the attacks would not come so obviously. Where charm and subtlety, not confrontation, would be her weapons.

Kate tapped the pen lightly against the paper, her mind moving swiftly. Perhaps an evening at the gallery, with critics who measured worth not only in lineage but in taste. Or perhaps a dinner where the subject of inheritance and estates would be casually raised, to see how Abigail navigated the politics of wealth without appearing gauche.

She wrote slowly, deliberately, her handwriting sharp and precise. This next step would not be as blunt as the luncheon. It would be a stage where Abigail would either reveal her tact or expose her inexperience.

When she was done, she folded the paper neatly and slipped it into a drawer, locking it with a small silver key.

Kate leaned back, gazing out at the night. In the garden below, faint lanterns still glowed where the staff had not yet extinguished them. She thought of Obetta, of Carmen, of the many schemes circling like vultures in this family.

Her lips curved faintly. “Let them scheme,” she murmured to herself. “If Abigail is worthy, she will outlast them. If not… she will fall, and it will not be my hand that pushes her.”

The matriarch turned away from the window, her silk gown whispering across the floor. The night deepened around her, but her mind remained sharp, weaving tests and trials like a spider spinning its web.

Meanwhile, in her own wing of the estate, Abigail sat in the quiet of her room, unaware of the storms brewing both below and above her. She thought of the luncheon, of the veiled attacks, of Helena Cruz’s faint support. She replayed each moment, not with fear, but with calculation. She was learning. She knew now that every smile carried a blade, every compliment a hook.

She pressed a hand to her chest, steadying herself. Luke’s world was not hers by birth, but it was hers by choice and she would not let it slip through her fingers.

What Abigail did not yet know was that Carmen and Obetta were sharpening their knives in the shadows. Nor that Kate, with her cool eyes and veiled curiosity, was preparing another test.

The board was being set. The players were moving.

And Abigail, whether she wished it or not, was at the center of the game.