Chapter 9

Victoria didn't argue. She didn't even flinch. No emotion crossed her face.

Anthony watched her walk toward the attic, his frown deepening.

She hadn't always been like this.

She used to be a rose with thorns, head held high, eyes burning, never backing down. Now that woman was gone. What remained was an obedient shell, stripped of fire, stripped of life.

Something in Anthony's chest tightened. It wasn't just confusion—there was a flicker of unease. Was the rumor true? If she had really traded Anne's life for this marriage, shouldn't she be thriving, smug in her victory? Why did she look like she was halfway to the grave?

The thought passed quickly.

If marrying into the Russell family brought strength to the Windsors, it was still a win.

He turned away, no longer watching her faded silhouette.

Back at the Russell Manor, Victoria didn't tend to the blood crusted on her face or the rash eaten into her skin.

She went straight to the bathroom, ran a bath at just the right heat, added two drops of lavender oil.

Then she walked into the kitchen.

Anne had once told her Edward's stomach was weak. After business dinners, he liked hot borscht and a veal steak cooked medium rare.

Victoria remembered. She was supposed to take care of Edward… for Anne.

She tied on an apron and moved through the vast kitchen, its marble counters gleaming under the chandelier's light.

The onions stung her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks, dripping onto her broken skin. She didn't feel the pain.

The soup simmered, rich and fragrant, filling the cold mansion with warmth.

At eight o'clock, the sound of an engine rolled into the courtyard.

Edward stepped inside, bringing the chill with him. At the door, he changed his shoes, catching the scent in the air.

It was something he hadn't smelled since Anne was alive—the smell of home.

His shoulders loosened slightly.

In the dining room, the table was set.

The steak was seared perfectly, the borscht gleamed in the light.

"Sierra's cooking is getting better," he said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the chair.

He picked up the spoon, tasted the soup. The tang and sweetness eased the fatigue of the day.

For the first time in days, he felt hunger.

He lifted the spoon again, tasting the mushroom soup. The flavor spread across his tongue, chasing away the irritation that had clung to him all day.

It was familiar. It was Anne.

The kitchen door swung open.

Edward was halfway through swallowing when his gaze caught the gray shadow in the doorway.

Not Sierra.

Her.

The woman who had killed Anne. The shameless creature pretending to be a devoted wife, poisoning every memory he had of home.

His stomach turned.

"Who told you to touch this?"

He shot to his feet, arm sweeping wide.

The bowl hit the floor with a violent crack, soup exploding across the tiles.

Scalding liquid splashed up her calves, her feet, her rash-covered arms.

A tremor ran through her body.

It burned. Blisters rose instantly.

She didn't scream. She bit down hard, swallowing the sound.

"Stop playing house."

Edward towered over her, rage in his eyes. "Seeing you act like this makes me want to vomit. You think cooking dinner erases your sins? You think flattering me will make me forget how you clawed your way up?"

Victoria said nothing.

She didn't wipe the soup from her skin. She bent down, gathering the shattered pieces.

Her fingers shook from the pain. A shard sliced into her fingertip. Blood welled, dripping into the soup, swirling red into red.

She didn't stop. She reached for another piece.

A polished shoe came down, pinning the shard—and her hand—against the floor.

"Ah!" The cry escaped before she could swallow it.

She tried to pull back, but Edward's weight held her there.

The shard dug deeper, the shoe grinding it in. The pain nearly forced another scream.

"Don't touch it." His voice was flat, cold. "Filthy hands like yours don't belong here. Let it rot, just like you."

He stepped back, looking at her bleeding hand. No satisfaction. Just more irritation.

She knelt there, her hand trembling as she pulled it away.

She looked up.

Her eyes held no anger, no hurt. Just emptiness.

"Edward." Her voice was hoarse. "The Windsor family's company needs investment."

The air froze.

Edward blinked, then laughed—a sharp, mocking sound.

"So that's what this little show was for?"

He leaned down, locking his gaze on her pale face. "Baths, dinner, acting pathetic, swallowing my insults… all for money?"

"Yes." The answer was quick, without hesitation. "If you sign, I'll do anything."

Anne had wanted her to take care of Edward. She had wanted her to save the family.

Even if Victoria had once loved him, now she was only fulfilling Anne's last wish.

Dignity? It had been buried with Anne.

"You never fail to amaze me."

His anger spiked. He grabbed her collar, yanking her up, slamming her against the cold dining room wall.

"For money, you'll throw away everything?"

His eyes were bloodshot, his breath hot against her skin. "I scalded you, stomped your hand—you stayed silent. But for money, you dare to speak?"

"Please." Her head tilted back under his grip, her eyes still empty. "Help the Windsor family."

He stared at her face, so close to his.

She looked so much like Anne. But the soul was filthy.

Anne had been proud, unbreakable. Victoria was trash, willing to be trampled for her goal.

And yet…

The sweat on her temple. The way she refused to close her eyes, even through the pain.

His heart skipped.

That look… it was the same. The same as Anne's eyes when she pushed him away at the wedding.

Damn it.

She was copying Anne. Even this.

"Don't look at me like that!"

His rage flared. He raised his hand, the slap slicing the air toward her.

She didn't move. Didn't blink.

She only waited for it. She deserved it.

His hand froze midair.

Those dead eyes… hitting her would be pointless. She wouldn't care. She couldn't feel.

The impotence drove him mad.

He slammed his fist into the wall beside her head.

Dust drifted down.

"You want money?" His teeth ground together. "If you're willing to sink that low, then let's play a game."

He released her, wiping his hand on his shirt as if her touch had dirtied him.

"Tomorrow night, you're coming with me."

He straightened his collar, the arrogance sliding back into place. "Let's see how far you'll crawl for the Windsor family."

"If you impress me, maybe I'll throw your family's dying company a job."

She slid down the wall, sitting on the floor.

The burns on her legs throbbed, her hand still bleeding. But she nodded.

"Fine."

She agreed.

Even if it meant dying.

As long as she could fulfill Anne's wish. As long as she could… atone.