Sera frowned, studying her mother's expression. "Why are you saying it like that? Is there something I should know?"
"Nothing, just let him look after you. Its only going to be for a few days."
Sera nodded slowly.
Bri drew her daughter into her arms again.
"Will you get your leg checked out now that you have the money? You did get the payment, right?" Sera asked.
That finally earned a real laugh from Bri, a rich, genuine sound that momentarily chased away the tension in the room. "Of course I did. Don't worry about me.Take care of yourself, sweetheart," Bri said, cupping her daughter's face. "Keep your head down and don't talk to strangers. Most importantly, stay away from the Duvalls."
Sera swallowed hard. "Trust me, I will."
"They're dangerous. Whatever happens, don't cross paths with them."
Sera wanted to ask more but it wasn't the time. So she only nodded.
When Bri stood, her limp more pronounced than before, Sera rose halfway as if to help her, but Bri waved her off with a smile. "Don't make that face. I've survived worse."
Sera bit her lip. "Just… promise me you'll be careful."
"I should be saying that to you," Bri said softly. Then she turned toward the door.
Sera stood by the window again. She couldn't wait to get out of the Blackwood estate.
*****
The dining room of the Duval estate was a museum of wealth — a long table gleaming under the amber light of the chandelier. Delilah sat at one end of the table, straight-backed, poised, the way her etiquette tutor had trained her since childhood.
Her father, Charles Duvall, sat at the other — a tall man with silver-streaked hair and a face carved from stone. They rarely shared meals together, and when they did, the silence between them was a third presence at the table.
Charles lifted his glass, swirling the deep red wine. "You went to the Blackwood Estate today, didn't you? How did it go?" he asked.
Delilah blinked once, composed. "It was… fine, Father," she replied carefully, cutting into her grilled salmon.
Charles nodded absently, attention already drifting back to his glass. He rarely looked at her directly; when he did, it was as though he were seeing someone else — a ghost from his past. Delilah had stopped trying to read meaning into it years ago. He was her father by blood, yes, but not by bond.
The only parent she truly knew was her aunt, Vivienne.
Vivienne had been the one who brushed Delilah's hair, who taught her to smile even when her heart was breaking, who whispered that her father wasn't cruel — only damaged. "He'll come around," she'd say, painting her lips crimson in front of the mirror. "One day, darling, he'll look at you and finally see what he's been missing."
Delilah had believed that for years. But now, as she sat across from the man who sired her, she wasn't sure anymore.
Maybe when she carried the Blackwood heir, she thought bitterly, he would finally acknowledge her existence.
"Did you meet Mr. Blackwood?" Charles asked suddenly.
"Yes," she said smoothly. "Mrs. Blackwood mentioned she would come see you soon."
"And where is your aunt?" he asked next, tone clipped.
"She'll be here soon. She went home briefly," Delilah said.
Charles set his glass down with a dull clink. "I don't know why she still has to come around so often. When you were a child, I indulged her. You are a grown woman now. She doesn't have to be here."
The words "Yes, Father" slipped from Delilah's lips with mechanical obedience. Charles Duvall didn't even glance up from his meal; the faint clink of his fork against the china was the only acknowledgment she received.
"You might as well get married and leave," Charles said flatly. "Vivienne can visit you wherever you end up."
Delilah swallowed hard, the food on her plate suddenly tasting like ash. There it was — the subtle dismissal she'd heard her whole life.
"If I may be excused, Father," she said, forcing her voice not to shake. "I have an upset stomach."
Charles merely flicked his fingers in her direction, the gesture of a man brushing away a fly. "Go," he said without looking up, already cutting into the next bite of his steak.
Delilah rose gracefully, controlled. Once outside the dining room, she paused against the wall, exhaling a shuddering breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
He didn't even look at me.
The thought burned as she climbed the staircase to her room. Her father's bloodline, all strength and legacy, yet somehow she was the disappointment, the daughter who wasn't enough.
Inside her room, she walked to the vanity and stared at her reflection.
She pressed her palms to the edge of the vanity and whispered, "I can't stay here."
Not in this house, not in this life.
Eric Blackwood had been her chance — her way out, her way to matter. But then that girl — that nameless imposter had ruined everything. Stolen her moment, her fate.
Her jaw tightened. "She'll fix it," she whispered to herself, thinking of her aunt. "Aunt Vivienne will fix it. She always does."
The storm outside cracked suddenly, lightning slicing the night sky open. "And when she does… Eric will see me."
*****
Down at the Blackwood estate, the storm clouds were already gathering — thick, heavy, and impatient. The air carried the metallic tang of impending rain. Eric sat across from his mother at the long dining table.
"I have to go see Mrs. Thorne and apologize to her," Claudia announced suddenly, breaking the fragile quiet.
Eric didn't look up. "You cannot go tonight. There's a storm coming."
"I'm not made of sugar, Eric." She gave a light, dismissive laugh, lifting her wine glass. "A little rain won't melt me."
Eric's gaze dropped to his plate, then to the fork poised in his hand. He sniffed the food — once, twice — his brow furrowing slightly.
Claudia's fork froze halfway to her lips, her sharp eyes narrowing. "What are you doing?" she asked slowly.