Sera winced, pressing a palm to her forehead. "Great. Just great," she muttered under her breath, staring down at Eric sprawled across the floor. "How many times am I going to kill the man in one morning? Nice going, Sera. Real smooth."
Her eyes flicked toward the door as if escape might somehow solve the problem. She buried her face in her hands, groaning theatrically. "Fantastic. The one time she actually lets me leave the house, I kill a Blackwood."
Despite herself, she leaned closer again, checking for a pulse. Her heart pounded so violently it nearly drowned out the sound of his steady breathing. Relief hit first—thank God, he was alive—but it was quickly replaced by an equally fierce panic. Alive meant awake. Awake meant confrontation. Alive meant she'd have to explain why she had just assaulted the head of the most dangerous, most influential werewolf family in the city. The Blackwoods were royalty in this part of town. Werewolf royalty. And I just smashed a lamp over his head.
Sera straightened abruptly, heart hammering, mind racing. Every instinct screamed at her to leave, vanish into the corridors of the estate, pretend the last few minutes hadn't happened. But even as the thought of running flickered through her, she knew she couldn't. Not yet. She had to wait—for him to wake, for her to apologize, for her life to possibly implode in a single dramatic moment.
She sank to the floor beside him, knees drawn up, biting her lip, trying to imagine a scenario where she could explain herself without her mother's face flashing behind her eyes, or without the looming threat of the Blackwoods retaliating. She counted silently, willing time to slow, every second stretching.
*****
Delilah's heels clicked against the driveway as she stepped out of the car, her nerves humming. Her aunt's presence was a warm pressure at her side, guiding her, reminding her of the stakes. This was it: Eric Blackwood.
Her pulse quickened at the thought that her aunt had orchestrated this meeting. Every detail had been meticulously planned.
"Behave, Delilah," Vivienne whispered. "Smile, be polite, and remember why we're here."
Delilah rolled her eyes discreetly. "Relax, Aunt Viv," she murmured. "I know how to make a good impression."
Vivienne had spent hours the night before coaching her on subtle flirtation that might charm a man like Eric Blackwood.
The door swung open before them, revealing the maid.
"This is Miss Duvall," Vivienne announced, chin raised. "I'm sure you know who I am."
The maid froze, eyes widening. "Miss… miss Duvall?" she stammered, gaze flicking between Delilah and Vivienne. "Then who…?"
Vivienne's patience thinned visibly. "Will you quit all the mumbling and let us in?" she snapped. "Where is Mrs. Blackwood? I have no patience for this kind of incompetence."
The maid wrung her hands, eyes darting nervously around the hall. "Mrs. Thorne, I—I… there must be a mistake—"
Vivienne's eyes narrowed, a sharp hiss escaping her lips as she shoved the trembling maid aside. The woman staggered. "Where. Is. Mrs. Blackwood?" Vivienne demanded.
"She was informed of an emergency at the Blackwood Clinic… and had to rush over. But…"
"Then get me Mr. Blackwood," Vivienne ordered.
The maid swallowed, lips trembling. Her eyes flicked to Delilah, then back to Vivienne, panic painting her features in stark, desperate colors. "Mrs. Thorne… he is… with another lady right now. A lady who claims to be… Miss Duvall."
Delilah froze. Her stomach dropped as if gravity itself had betrayed her. What? she rasped inwardly, heart hammering. This was supposed to be her moment—her one chance to secure her future. Instead, someone had infiltrated her carefully curated plan.
Vivienne's gaze turned predatory, her eyes narrowing in a way that almost didn't seem human. "Explain," she demanded.
"I—I've never met Miss Duvall! She came in, said her name, and… I just followed the instructions Mrs. Blackwood left! I'm sure… Mr. Blackwood… he—"
"Stop talking! Now!" Vivienne snapped. Her mouth snapped shut. "When Mrs. Blackwood returns, I will personally ensure you are fired. And oh… you will never find employment in any of the powerful houses… ever again."
The maid paled. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor in a public display of utter submission, palms pressed together in desperate supplication. Tremors ran through her entire frame. The panic radiating from her was palpable.
Sobbing, she crawled forward, her hands reaching for Delilah's feet in a grotesque, humiliating plea. Delilah recoiled instinctively, yanking her foot back as the maid skidded backward across the marble.
"Get off me, you idiot!" Delilah snapped. "How could you be so stupid? How could you let someone steal my future like that?"
Her mind raced, imagining the audacity of the woman masquerading as her upstairs. Was she beautiful? Was she practiced? Did she laugh when he… when Eric… The thought made bile rise in her throat, a combustible mix of desire, envy, and rage. She felt an overwhelming urge to storm the estate, tear down the corridors, and reclaim what had been promised to her.
Vivienne's hand tightened around Delilah's wrist, grounding her, a quiet but firm force. "Control your voice," she murmured. "Anger is useful only when directed. We do not beg for what is rightfully ours. We take it." Her eyes flicked up the staircase.
The maid's sobs intensified, muffled by her hands as she pressed her face against the floor in submission. "I am so sorry, ma'am," she whimpered. "I—I'll go up and try to get her out of there!" Her hands twisted in front of her.
"I'm coming with you before you screw things up even further," Delilah hissed. "Get your pitiful self off the floor and take me there."
The maid scrambled up on shaking knees. "Y‑yes, ma'am," she stammered. Delilah launched herself up the staircase two steps at a time.
Her mind ran through possibilities—what if the impostor had charm, practiced lines, a rehearsed coyness that could win even Eric? The image made her teeth ache. She shook her head hard enough for her earrings to jingle. No. Impossible. No one could replace me. Not me.