Chapter 8
Julian stood paralyzed, the smug confidence entirely stripped from his face. Genevieve gripped his arm, her couture gown suddenly feeling like a straightjacket.
"Julian," Genevieve hissed, her voice trembling with panic. "Julian, why is she calling Marcus Blackwood her father? Why is that child hugging him?"
Julian couldn't answer. His mind was frantically trying to process the catastrophic reality unfolding before his eyes. The woman he had bullied, isolated, and belittled for five years was not a penniless orphan. She was Eleanor Blackwood. The sole heiress to an empire that could buy and sell his entire family lineage before breakfast.
Across the room, Mr. Blackwood stood up, lifting Maya effortlessly into his arms. He cradled her against his chest, completely indifferent to the hundreds of eyes watching them. The bright, cinematic lighting illuminated the tears on Maya’s rosy cheeks.
Mr. Blackwood reached into his tuxedo pocket, pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief, and gently dabbed the tears from Maya’s face.
As he wiped her cheek, the bright lights caught the angry, red welt still lingering on her fair skin.
Mr. Blackwood’s hand froze. The tender, grandfatherly warmth in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, violent darkness that made the nearest guests involuntarily take a step backward.
He touched the red mark gently with his thumb. "Maya," he said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register. "Where did you get this mark?"
Maya sniffled, wrapping her small arms around his neck for safety. She buried her face in his shoulder, feeling the absolute, unshakeable security radiating from him.
She turned her head slightly, her blue eyes scanning the crowd until she found the two figures standing frozen in the center of the room. With a trembling hand, Maya pointed a small finger directly past the crowd, aiming straight at Genevieve.
"Grandpa..." Maya sobbed, her voice echoing in the breathless silence of the ballroom. "She’s the lady who hurt me."
The crowd parted instantly, forming a wide, empty aisle between Mr. Blackwood and the trembling couple. No one wanted to stand anywhere near the trajectory of a Blackwood’s wrath.
Genevieve’s fair face went completely ashen. She dropped Julian’s arm, taking a frantic, stumbling step backward. "No, wait, I... it was an accident! She ruined my dress!"
Mr. Blackwood did not look at her yet. He looked at Eleanor.
"Is this true, Eleanor?" Mr. Blackwood asked quietly.
May you like
Eleanor stood tall beside her father, her eyes locked on Julian and Genevieve. "She struck her to the floor, Dad. And Julian stood there and watched."
The temperature in the room plummeted.
