CHAPTER 94

The night had passed like a slow tide retreating from the shore. Abigail lay awake long after Luke had drifted into his usual untroubled sleep. She watched the faint rise and fall of his chest, the calm in his features, the kind of calm that came only from a man who believed he was in control of everything around him. And maybe he was.

But Abigail wasn’t.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the high ceiling, her thoughts tangled. Obetta’s face from earlier the twisted frustration, the sharp anger that had seemed to quake beneath her skin refused to leave her. For so long, Obetta had moved with untouchable confidence, with the assurance of a woman who believed the world owed her its bow. To see her shaken, unsteady, and ignored… it unsettled Abigail more than it pleased her.

Because Maya had been right. A woman like Obetta cornered was not a woman who surrendered. She was a woman who would claw her way out by any means necessary.

The clock struck midnight, the sound echoing softly through the hall. Abigail turned her head toward Luke again. His face was half hidden in the shadow, but she could see the faint crease near his brow. Even in rest, his mind worked. She knew him well enough by now to understand that every move, every silence, was purposeful.

“You’re not telling me everything,” she whispered softly, though he could not hear her.

She shut her eyes, hoping for sleep. But when it finally came, it was thin and restless.

The morning was bright when she awoke. Luke was gone again, and his side of the bed already cold. Abigail sighed, sitting up. She pushed her hair out of her face and padded into the bathroom. Warm water from the shower soothed her, but her mind remained restless.

Downstairs, the estate was alive with quiet movements. Servants moved swiftly, tidying the living room, preparing the kitchen for the day’s meals. Abigail greeted them softly, then wandered out to the balcony with her coffee.

Her phone buzzed. Maya again.

“Abby, listen.” Her friend’s voice was hushed, as though she didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I’ve been hearing things. Whispers. People are saying Obetta’s losing more than her composure. She’s losing her backers.”

Abigail frowned. “Backers?”

“Powerful ones,” Maya said. “People who helped her build her little throne. They’re either pulling away or going silent. No one wants to be dragged down with her.”

Abigail’s stomach knotted. “But if she feels she’s slipping…”

“She’ll lash out,” Maya finished for her. “Abby, you need to be careful. Please.”

Abigail set her coffee aside, her grip on the phone tightening. She wanted to reassure Maya, to say she was fine, that Luke was handling everything. But a part of her resisted speaking such words. She wasn’t fine not when she felt like a storm cloud hung over her head, dark and heavy, waiting to burst.

“I’ll be careful,” she said finally, voice quiet.

After they hung up, Abigail remained on the balcony. Below, the gardens stretched, trimmed and perfect. From here, everything looked calm, beautiful. But she had learned enough by now to know that appearances meant little.

And somewhere, not far from her world of careful order, Obetta was unraveling.

At that very moment, in her own home across town, Obetta sat slumped on the edge of her bed. Her phone lay face down beside her, silent now after hours of unanswered calls.

She had tried everyone. Contacts who once rushed to return her messages now left her waiting. She had raised her voice, threatened, pleaded, reminded them of favors she had done. But the answers were the same: silence, excuses, distance.

Her reflection in the mirror mocked her still beautiful, still polished, but with shadows under her eyes, lips pressed too tight, anger bleeding through her perfect mask.

“I built you all,” she whispered bitterly, staring at her silent phone. “I gave you names, I gave you favors. And now you turn away?”

Her laughter was sharp, humorless. She stood, pacing the room.

It had to be him. Luke. No one else had the reach to shake the ground beneath her so thoroughly. But if it was Luke, then why couldn’t she find the proof? Why couldn’t she see his hand?

Her thoughts turned, inevitably, to Abigail. That little girl with soft eyes and quiet steps, who had somehow taken what she could not. Luke’s attention. His loyalty.

Obetta’s chest burned with resentment. Abigail didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve him.

The thought festered like poison.

She poured herself another drink, but the wine only deepened her rage. Finally, she hurled the glass across the room, shattering it against the wall.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she hissed to the empty air, her voice trembling. “Because I’ll find a way. I always do.”

Abigail spent the rest of her morning in the library, trying to distract herself with books. But the words blurred, her mind too noisy. By midday, she gave up and retreated to her room, curling onto the bed with her journal.

She had started the journal weeks ago, at Maya’s urging. “Write it out,” her friend had said. “Sometimes it helps to see your thoughts on paper.”

So she wrote.

She wrote about the unease that clung to her since seeing Obetta at the boutique. About the way Luke kept his secrets close, never revealing more than he chose. About her fear fear not only of Obetta but of the unknowns that surrounded her life now.

And as she wrote, something steadier surfaced. A realization.

No matter what storms loomed, no matter how Obetta raged, Abigail had changed. She was no longer the timid girl who had walked into the Vandell mansion months ago, uncertain and small. She had faced humiliation, threats, schemes and she had endured.

She closed the journal, her hand firm on the cover. She wasn’t the same, and Obetta would soon learn it.

That evening, Luke returned earlier than usual. Abigail met him in the hall, relief flickering at the sight of him.

“You’re home,” she said softly.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “I wanted to be.”

They shared dinner in relative silence. But even silence with Luke had its weight. Abigail watched him between bites the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyes seemed to look through everything, calculating.

Finally, she set her fork down. “Luke.”

His eyes lifted to hers.

“I saw Obetta again,” she said carefully. “She didn’t look the same. She looked… afraid.”

A faint smile ghosted his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good.”

Abigail tilted her head. “You’re behind this.”

Luke leaned back in his chair. “Would it matter if I was?”

Her breath caught. She held his gaze, searching, but his face was unreadable.

“No,” she whispered finally. “It wouldn’t.”

And in the silence that followed, she realized Obetta might rage, might claw, might try every desperate scheme left to her. But she was already slipping. And Abigail… she was learning to stand taller.