Chapter 8

Edward's fingers clamped around Victoria's chin, forcing her head up until her eyes met his.

"Smile."

His voice cut through the living room like a shard of ice, cold enough to make her spine lock.

"You can beam at strangers, people who mean nothing to you, yet you can't spare a single smile for me? Or is it that you only feel valuable when you're out there flaunting your fake talent?"

The air tightened, heavy, suffocating.

"Speak!" Edward's shout slammed into her ears, sharp enough to make them ache. "How dare you smile in daylight? Anne is lying in the cold ground, and you—the one who put her there—still have the nerve to laugh in that glittering cesspool, babbling about art for the sake of your pathetic vanity?"

Her neck burned where the collar rubbed against the rash that hadn't healed, each scrape a flare of pain.

She looked at him, lips trembling, but no sound came.

What was there to explain? That she was trying to comfort someone? That she wasn't really happy?

In Edward's eyes, even her breathing was a crime.

"Lost your tongue?" His laugh was short, bitter. He released her with a violent flick.

She stumbled back, hitting the staircase rail. Pain shot through her spine.

"You love clinging to the past, don't you? Hoarding those relics to remind yourself how innocent you think you are. Let me help you clear the slate."

He didn't wait for her reaction. He was already moving, charging up the stairs, storming into her room.

Her stomach dropped. She knew exactly where he was headed.

The safe.

Fear slammed into her chest. She ignored the pain in her feet, stumbling after him.

"No… Edward, don't!"

Too late.

When she burst into the room, he was already pulling open the hidden safe in her closet.

"Don't!" The scream ripped out of her throat—her first real sound all night.

She lunged at him, desperate to grab the battered metal box.

It was her grandmother's. The only person who had ever truly loved her. Inside were the letters she had kept close for years.

Edward was faster. One hand locked around the box, the other shoved her back hard.

She hit the floor with a sickening thud. Her forehead cracked against the bedframe. Blood spilled instantly, blurring her vision in a wash of red.

Edward looked down at her, his eyes merciless.

"That hurts? Did you ever think about whether I could handle it when you killed Anne?"

He carried the box to the fireplace.

The flames roared, casting a flickering glow over her terror.

He smiled. Seeing Victoria afraid was almost satisfying.

"Please… Edward, please…" She crawled toward him, tears and blood streaking her face. "They're my grandmother's letters… please, not this…"

"Now you beg?"

He didn't relent.

He opened the box, pulled out the stack of yellowed paper, and lifted it high.

The letters scattered into the fire.

The flames caught instantly, devouring the pages until there was nothing—no ash, no trace.

"No—!" Her scream was raw, animal.

She reached for the fire, but Edward's boot pinned her hand to the floor.

The pain in her hand was nothing compared to the hollow agony in her chest.

She watched the familiar handwriting curl, blacken, and vanish into the blaze.

Every proof of her grandmother's love was gone.

The last thread was cut.

Edward lifted his foot, staring down at her. She cried silently, refusing to lift her head.

The violence in him didn't fade. It left him emptier.

"Remember this, Victoria. In this house, you have no right to private possessions. Everything you are, including your memories, belongs to me."

He tossed the empty box onto the floor and walked out, leaving her to clutch it against her chest, staring at the ashes.

She thought, not for the first time, that it would be better if she were the one dead.

She was wrong. She should be dead.

Morning broke.

Victoria pushed herself off the floor. The blood on her face had dried, her swollen eyes startling the maid who saw her.

She couldn't stay here.

She had to go to the Windsor mansion. Her grandmother's other keepsakes—the old brooch, the photo album—were still in the attic. If Edward remembered, he would destroy them too.

She didn't change clothes. She didn't put on makeup. She left immediately.

The moment she stepped inside the mansion, the familiar scent hit her. It was the perfume her sister had worn.

Under the chandelier, her mother, Esme Garcia, sat on the sofa arranging flowers. Beside her was Ophelia Reed.

Ophelia wore a white silk gown, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

Her movements, her expression—uncannily like Anne.

Esme held Ophelia's hand, smiling warmly. "Ophelia, you have such a gift. These lilies look perfect. Not like some people, all thumbs."

"Godmother, you flatter me," Ophelia said softly. "I just wanted to do something in Anne's memory."

"Good girl," Esme said, her voice thick with affection. "Only you deserve to be a daughter of the Windsor family."

Ophelia's tone was polite, almost apologetic. "Victoria is just… not as thoughtful."

Esme's smile sharpened. "I don't have a daughter who sleeps with her own brother-in-law."

The words cut deep, sharp enough to sting Victoria's eyes.

That was her mother.

And yet, here she was, pouring warmth over a stranger, while spitting venom at her own child.

Victoria stepped inside, her voice rough. "I came to get something."

Esme's smile vanished.

She looked Victoria up and down, her mouth curling into a sneer.

"What's wrong? Things not working out over there? Come back to beg?"

She grabbed the leftover stems and leaves from the table and hurled them at Victoria.

The wet dirt clung to her clothes, the rose thorns slicing into her skin. Blood welled bright against her pale flesh.

"Just my luck, seeing your miserable face first thing in the morning," Esme said, rolling her eyes. "How do you still have the nerve to come back? If I were you, I'd have found a wall to smash my head against long ago."

Victoria didn't flinch. She didn't look at Ophelia or Esme. She kept her head down, walking toward the stairs like a hollow shell.

"Stop."

The voice was cold, commanding.

Her father, Anthony Windsor, stood at the top of the stairs, eyes fixed on her.

She stopped, lifting her gaze.

She thought—just for a moment—that he might ask why she was covered in injuries, why her face was streaked with blood.

But Anthony's eyes went to her neck and arms.

The rash had worsened, the skin raw and broken. His expression held no concern—only disgust.

"Look at you."

He descended slowly, voice like a verdict.

"Skin rotting like that… you look like a toad. Are you still planning to please Edward? Is this filthy face what you'll use to crawl into Edward's bed?"

Her heart shattered.

This was her family.

After a night in hell, no one cared if she was alive. Her father cared only about whether she could still be useful.

"I'm sorry, Father."

Her voice was hollow, cold. "I'll handle it."

"You'd better." His gaze was a blade. "The company needs funding from the Russell Group. Since you married into them, use your head. I don't care if you beg or strip—Edward will sign."

There was no softness in his tone.

"If you fail, don't come back. The Windsor family doesn't keep useless people."

Her fingers twitched at her sides, knuckles whitening, then loosening.

It was Anne's dying wish. She had to see it through.

"Yes. I understand."