Until—
Champagne pools over the rim and splashes across her silk skirt. Blanche flinches and gasps as if she’s been electrocuted. Satisfaction surges through my chest like thunder. After hours of her condescending bullshit, I’ve finally fought back.
“Oops,” I say with faux innocence.
She stares down at her ruined skirt, her painted lips trembling. Confusion and disbelief war across her features, and I dare her to speak.
The room goes dead silent. Every pair of eyes spear me with daggers, and the air charges with electricity. They’re probably all thinking the help just signed her own dismissal. But I don’t give a shit. I made the perfect, untouchable Blanche Ingram look stupid in front of her little friends. And for the first time since that bitch stepped through the front door, I’ve clawed back an ounce of self-respect.
“You clumsy bitch!” she screams.
I raise my brows, force back a smirk. “Apologies, Miss Ingram, my hand slipped.”
Comprehension flashes across her features, followed by rage. She knows it wasn’t an accident. She glances at Rochester for backup, but when he doesn’t react, she hurls the drink. Liquid hits my cheek but I sidestep, just as the antique crystal shatters on the floor.
He shoots out of his seat, his eyes bouncing from me to the smashed glass. “You dare humiliate my fiancée under my roof? I won’t have a servant show her such disrespect. Get out before I throw you out.”
I flinch, my breath catching. After everything we’ve shared, every whispered promise in the dark, he’s choosing her. Protecting his investment like I’m expendable. My chest tightens as if he’s reached into my lungs and twisted.
Gathering what’s left of my self-worth, I flick the champagne dripping from my hair. “With pleasure.”
With my head high, I walk toward the door, my feet crunching the broken shards like applause. I tell myself that each step is a victory march, even though my heart wants to hammer through my ribs. Behind me, Blanche’s friends rush to comfort her while she rants about ruined clothes and incompetent staff.
But I don’t hear Rochester saying a single word in my defense.
Maybe I finally have my answer about the prenup.
The betrayal cuts deeper with every step. He sat there like a statue while his friends hurled insults and his precious fiancée threw champagne in my face. Didn’t tell her to calm down, didn’t acknowledge that she attacked me first.
He just dismissed me like garbage and meant every single word.
I stride through the hallway, my footsteps echoingoff the marble. Fury propels me past the oil paintings, past ornaments I want to smash into pieces. My mind races with escape plans. I should grab the red sports car keys, take a ferry to the mainland, and disappear into the countryside.
When I push through the front door, cool night air hits my sticky face like salvation. The sudden quiet after all that noise makes my ears ring. I wipe away the champagne and breathe through the burning rage.
I glare at the sports car, my hands shaking as the adrenaline starts to crash, leaving behind the bitter taste of fury and humiliation.
This is a sign that I should grab one of those cars and disappear before dawn. The keys are probably still in the ignition. Rich people never expect their shit to get stolen.
I stare at the car for a long moment, weighing my options. Where would I go? I don’t have any safe houses and I sure as shit have no contacts. At least here, I’m hidden from the world that wants me dead.
Freedom versus safety. The unknown versus the devil I know.
A gust of wind blows in from the sea, making me shiver. Lord knows I want to leave. But I’d rather scrub this bitch’s toilets than get tossed in a cell or carved up by Gil’s people. I turn back toward the house, avoiding the drawing room and their echoing laughter.
Hours later, after a hot shower, I sit up in bed and glare at the door. A chair is wedged beneath the knob, blocking my nighttime intruder. I’ve also bolted the balcony doors shut.
Let him try to get in now. I’ve barricaded myself against men like him since the day I grew breasts.
The night drags on and I’m still too wired to sleep.My mind keeps replaying Rochester’s cold dismissal, the way he chose Blanche. Nights ago, he mentioned a plan, but how reassuring are words uttered in the heat of the moment compared to days of coldness and avoidance? It makes every breathy assurance in bed feel like a lie.
When the doorknob creaks, I flinch.
It’s him.
He knocks. It’s soft at first, almost hesitant. Three gentle raps that could be mistaken for politeness.
I stay silent, my jaw clenching. Where was he when they called me a pig in a blanket?
