“It’s not a miracle.” I cut her off, my voice flat. “It’s blood money. The deal is being offered because the CEO’s daughter, Seraphine Moreau, drugged and tried to sexually assault Julian Hale. His family found out. They didn’t go to the police. As an ‘apology,’ they are now forcing this partnership as penance for my benefit.”
The room went utterly silent. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner was obscenely loud.
Mr. Ashworth found his voice first. “That’s… a serious allegation.” He wheezed, his thin chest rattling.
“It’s the truth. I saw Julian’s father break the man’s ribs in his study when he protested.” I looked at each of them, pouring every ounce of my frayed hope into the space between us—hoping they understood why I couldn’t be involved. “I don’t want to build our future on that. It’s poisoned. I came to tell you that I’m turning it down. I’ll stay with the company for longer. I’ll find another way. We’ll grind it out, quarter by quarter. But not with them.”
I waited. For a flicker of decency. For a shred of the moral high ground they’d always pretended to occupy.
Alistair snorted first—an ugly, disbelieving sound. “You’re turning down sixty million dollars because you’re having a moral crisis concerning your boy toy?”
I scoffed. “Alistair, there’s a line.”
“A line?” His mother’s voice was shrill, the genteel mask dissolving into panic. “Your line is going to bankrupt us! Do you have any idea what’s at stake? My husband’s care? This house? Our legacy?”
I shook my head and swallowed the lump in my throat. I don’t even know why I was trying, but part of me knew this wouldn’t turn out well. They would be even worse off after signing those papers—the Hales would eventually own them soul and bone. I wanted to save them from becoming Julian’s next meal.
“I’m offering you a different path,” I said, though the hope was already curdling in my stomach.
“A path to ruin!” Mr. Ashworth barked, a surge of color in his pallid cheeks. “You ungrateful girl. After everything we’ve done for you. We took you in! We gave you a name, a position, a life!And now, when we are at our most vulnerable, you would deny us our rescue over some… some squalid drama that’s none of our business? Why even tell us? You owe us this!”
There it was. Not decency. Not even pragmatic understanding. Just naked entitlement.
A profound calm washed over me. The last thread snapped.
“No,” I said, my voice quiet and final in the grand room. “I don’t owe you a thing. Not anymore.”
I looked at Alistair, at his petulant face. At his mother, wringing her hands over china she might have to sell. At his father, whose kindness had always been a transaction.
“I wash my hands of you,” I said, the words simple, biblical, and utterly true. “All of you. The company, the legacy, the debt. It’s yours. Drown in it.”
I turned and walked out. No one followed. No one called my name.
The cold night air hit me like a blessing; it was sobering. I slid into the driver’s seat of Julian’s car and gripped the wheel until my knuckles turned white.
I didn’t look back at the house as I started the engine. I didn’t cry. I just drove, leaving my captors behind in the dark.
For the first time in nineteen years, I wasn't an Ashworth. I wasn't an asset. I was just Elara. And I had a car that didn't belong to me and a man I had just broken who was probably waiting to break me back.
Chapter 39
Julian
I was sitting on the back patio, staring up at a sky choked with city light, seeing nothing. Seraphine and her father were long gone, their deal signed in silence and terror. The victory was complete, airtight, and utterly hollow.
The sliding door whispered open. I didn’t turn.
“You let her walk away over this?” My mother’s voice was quiet—not a reprimand, but a genuine question. She came to stand beside my chair, following my blank gaze upward. “Julian.”
“I didn’tlether do anything. She walked away on her own. Or better yet, she drove away in my six-figure car.”
“She’s right, though,” Vivienne said, her voice infuriatingly calm. “You should have told her what happened. From the beginning.”
I laughed once—harsh and bitter. “Is that what we’re doing? Parenting lessons? Now?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “Because whatever you just did… it won’t end well for you.”
“She overreacted,” I spat.
