Chapter 2
Eleanor knelt on the brilliant white marble, the crisp, natural light from the skylights offering no warmth to the freezing reality of her marriage. She pulled Maya tightly into her arms, wrapping her tailored jacket around the shivering child. Maya sobbed uncontrollably against her mother’s shoulder, her tears soaking into the expensive fabric of Eleanor's suit.
“Mommy, it hurts,” Maya whimpered, her tiny fingers clutching the lapel of Eleanor’s jacket. Her fair, rosy cheek was already blooming with a harsh, angry red welt where Genevieve’s hand had struck her.
“I know, baby. I know,” Eleanor whispered into Maya’s hair, her voice trembling with a mixture of profound sorrow and awakening rage. “I am so sorry. Mommy is right here.”
Eleanor looked up from the floor, her eyes fixing on Julian. For five years, she had played the role of the subdued, compliant wife. She had hidden her true lineage, her immense wealth, and her maiden name to protect Maya from the dangerous, cutthroat world of the Blackwood empire. She had chosen Julian because he seemed safe, ordinary, and stable.
She realized now, looking at his apathetic face, that he was merely a different kind of monster.
“Julian,” Eleanor said, her voice dropping an octave, steadying into something dangerously quiet. “She is your daughter. Are you truly going to stand there and defend the woman who just struck her to the floor?”
Julian sighed, running a hand over his perfectly styled hair. He looked deeply inconvenienced by the entire ordeal. “Don't be so dramatic, Eleanor. It was a slap, not a gunshot. If you taught the girl how to walk properly around high-society guests, Genevieve wouldn't have had to correct her.”
Genevieve smirked, crossing her arms over her fitted couture gown. “Exactly. Consider it a favor. She has to learn how to behave in polite company if she’s going to carry the Vance name.”
The illusion shattered completely. The faded, suffocating life Eleanor had built to hide her daughter dissolved in the bright, unforgiving light of the foyer.
Eleanor rose slowly to her feet, lifting Maya effortlessly and holding the child securely against her hip. She did not yell. She did not cry. The wounded, submissive wife vanished, replaced by an icy, terrifying calm that Julian had never seen before. Her fair skin seemed to turn to porcelain, her posture straightening into a stance of pure authority.
“You will never correct her again,” Eleanor stated, staring straight at Genevieve.
“Excuse me?” Genevieve scoffed, stepping forward. “Are you threatening me in my own—”
May you like
Eleanor cut her off, her gaze shifting to Maya, resting a gentle hand over the girl’s unbruised cheek. Her voice was low, incredibly protective, and carried a promise that would shake the foundation of the city.
"No one will ever lay a hand on you again," Eleanor vowed.
