Chapter 38 This Is Her Home
EMILY
Pride is an expensive luxury, but watching Beatrice Wolfe lose hers is entirely free of charge. And I’m happy to be here for it.
She remains frozen on the Persian rug, the dark puddle of spilled tea slowly expanding around her knees, soaking into the intricate cream wool. Her skin looks like gray dough under the sharp light of the crystal chandelier. The physical collapse of her posture tells me everything I need to know about the Meditation Room. It isn’t a place for peaceful contemplation. The mere mention of it makes her shoulders sag as if a heavy iron bar just dropped onto her neck.
In just a few days, I’ve been the stray animal this family wanted to put down. I’ve been the nameless girl from the Vance family, an outsider who only gained entry because of a biological fluke and a marriage contract. Now, the main architect of my misery is staring directly into her own cage.
My ultimate goal in this fortress remains unchanged. I need to secure the licensing for my cardiology formula with Dr. Aris, build my own independent financial standing, and ensure this baby has a future free from their venom. Seeing Beatrice crumble like wet cardboard is an excellent step toward that survival.
Alistair stands beside my armchair, a towering mass of dark charcoal wool and absolute authority. He doesn’t look down at his aunt. His dark eyes stay fixed on the far wall, his jaw clamped so tightly that a small muscle pulses rhythmically near his ear. He has his hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders easily blocking out the light from the fireplace behind him.
"The clock is ticking, Beatrice," Alistair says. His voice has a flat, heavy finality that cuts through the warmth of the room. "Make your choice. The words, or the room."
Beatrice turns a frantic, desperate look toward the high-backed chair where Celia sits. Her eyes beg for a lifeline, a single nod of support from the matriarch. But the Old Madam keeps her back rigid. Her weathered, wrinkled fingers move steadily over her jade prayer beads. Martha stands just behind the chair, her face a blank mask as she focuses entirely on smoothing the creases of the Old Madam’s silk shawl, completely ignoring her sister-in-law’s silent pleas.
Left with no exit, Beatrice steeles her posture. She drags her feet across the carpet, her slippers making a heavy, scraping sound against the wool. She stops two feet from my chair. The scent of her expensive jasmine perfume is sour now, mixed with the sharp tang of panic sweat. Her lips twist into a bitter, tight line, and her chest heaves beneath her ruined silk robe.
"I’m sorry," she forces out. The words sound like they’re scraping against broken glass in her throat.
I don’t move an inch. I sit back in the leather chair, looking up to meet her gaze directly. I study the deep lines
carved around her mouth that make it look like she’s scowling.
There’s no regret in those bloodshot eyes. There’s only the calculation of a cornered predator trying to save her lifestyle and her bank account.
"You’re only saying that because you’re terrified of losing your freedom and your allowance," I say, keeping my voice steady and distinct. "There’s no actual understanding of what you did. You aren’t sorry that you put Lily in a cage. You’re just sorry that Alistair found the digital breadcrumbs leading to Daniel. I don’t accept this apology."
She receives my statement as hard as she received the slap earlier today. Beatrice’s face changes in an instant, the pale gray flushing into a dark, mottled purple. Her skin keeps changing between gray and purple, it’s a funny sight to see.
A screech tears out of her throat, an ugly, unhinged sound that makes me move back a little.
"You miserable little gutter rat!"
She raises her right hand, her long, red-painted nails catching the lamplight as she swings her arm in a wild, vicious arc aimed directly at my face.
She doesn’t connect. Alistair moves a step ahead before her hand can even reach its peak. He steps directly into the space between us, his massive frame completely shielding me from her reach. His hand moves with the speed of a snapping trap, his large fingers clamping around her thin wrist mid-swing.
Beatrice lets out a ragged gasp, her fingers going instantly limp as he holds her arm frozen in the air.
Alistair doesn’t shake her. He just holds her there, his obsidian-like gaze drilling into her terrified face. "You haven’t learned a single thing," he says, his tone dropping into a dangerous register that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "Three days in the dark was a mercy. You just traded it for a week. Leo, get her out of my sight."
The doors of the living room swing open instantly. Leo steps through the threshold, followed by two massive security guards in dark tactical uniforms. Their heavy boots thud against the hardwood floor, a clinical, military sound that slices through the remaining family illusion. They don’t hesitate. One guard grabs Beatrice by the elbow, while the other takes her shoulder.
"No! Let go of me!" Beatrice screams, her voice cracking as she struggles against their iron grip. Her heels drag uselessly across the floor, kicking up the edge of the expensive rug. "Richard! Arthur! Don’t let him do this to me! Mother!"
She’s completely unraveled now. Her hair falls into her face in wild, damp strands, and her silk robe tears slightly at the shoulder seam. The guards carry her out like a sack of grain, her frantic shrieks echoing down the long marble corridor until the heavy front doors slam shut, cutting off the sound and leaving a ringing silence in the room.
The Old Madam lets out a long, heavy sigh that seems to drain the last bit of life from her ancient frame. She looks at the broken porcelain on the floor, then slowly turns her sharp, weathered face toward me. Her eyes are cold, hard, and entirely devoid of the affection she just showed Lily upstairs. She leans heavily on her carved mahogany cane as she pushes herself out of the chair.
"This house hasn’t known a second of peace since you walked through those gates," the Old Madam says, her voice raspy but firm. "You didn’t hold the gun, Emily, and you didn’t hire those thugs. But this chaos arose because of your presence. You are a magnet for trouble."
She takes a slow, deliberate step toward the staircase. "I will not accept you as my granddaughter-in-law. I won’t forbid Alistair from keeping you here, but don’t expect a single shred of warmth or kindness from me. You have your contract. Rest content with that."
Martha follows her immediately, her head bowed, refusing to look in my direction. Richard Wolfe stays behind for only a second, his face pale and his eyes darting toward the door before he slips out of the room like a ghost, eager to distance himself from his wife’s disgrace.
The cavernous living room feels massive now, empty except for the three of us. Arthur Sr. walks up to Alistair. He glares at me over his son’s shoulder, his upper lip curling as he adjusts the gold cufflinks at his wrists.
"She’s a femme fatale, Alistair," his father says in a shaky voice. "Look at what she’s done to this family in a matter of months. She turned your aunt into a criminal and your grandmother into an enemy. Send her away. Throw her back to whatever hole she crawled out of before she ruins the Wolfe name entirely."
Alistair doesn’t back down an inch. He shifts his weight, his tall frame completely filling the space between his father and my chair. "She is my wife," Alistair says in a bold voice. "Her place is here. There will be no further discussion on this matter."
Arthur Sr.’s face goes an alarming shade of crimson. His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that I can see the veins bulging against his skin. He looks like he wants to strike his own son, but the sheer physical size of Alistair keeps him rooted to the spot.
"Fine," his father spits, the words dripping with venom. "If you’re going to be blinded by a pretty face and a pregnancy, do it under your own roof. Take her and move out of this estate. She was never meant to stay here in the first place. Take your chaos to one of your city apartments. Let us have some peace in our own home."
I feel a sudden, secret surge of pure delight. Move out? Leave this dark, oppressive fortress full of vipers and ancient judgment? The thought is intoxicating. If we move to a city apartment, I can set up my own independent schedule. I can focus on my research without three layers of security details reporting my every breath to the Old Madam. I can finally breathe. I look at Alistair’s back, silently praying that his stubbornness will carry us right out the front doors.
Alistair doesn’t even pause to consider the offer.
"We’re staying," he says in a flat voice.
My delight dies instantly, replaced by a dull ache of disappointment. He turns slightly, his dark eyes meeting mine for the first time since the interrogation began.
"The Wolfe estate has a maximum-security perimeter," Alistair explains, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that brooks no argument. "It has reinforced gates, private guards, and a secure infrastructure. With all that has happened, I realize now that by keeping Emily here can I truly feel at ease about her safety."
He looks back at his father, his expression an absolute wall of stone. "This is her home now. Get used to it."