Chapter 5

Elara

The front door was unlocked. I shoved it open hard enough that it banged against the wall, the sound lost beneath Mrs. Ashford's screaming.

"—barren woman can only raise a worthless whore! Look at your precious daughter—sleeping around with strange men at her age!"

I skidded into the living room and stopped dead.

Margaret was on her knees in the center of the room. Her hands were pressed flat against the hardwood floor, her head bowed. There was blood on her forehead—fresh blood, trickling down to her eyebrow. Her knees were red and raw, like she'd been kneeling there for hours.

Mrs. Ashford stood over her, one hand gripping her cane, the other holding what looked like photographs.

"Mom!" I rushed forward, dropping to my knees beside Margaret. "Mrs. Ashford, what did my mother do wrong this time? Why are you doing this to her?!"

Mrs. Ashford's eyes snapped to me. Her face was twisted with rage, her carefully styled gray hair coming loose from its pins.

"You dare ask what she did wrong?!" She threw the photographs at us. They scattered across the floor like fallen leaves, glossy and damning. "Your mother can't even have children—that's her biggest sin! And the orphan trash she brought into this house isn't any better!"

I looked down at the photographs.

My stomach dropped.

They were from this morning. From The Plaza Hotel. From Suite 1216.

Me and Damien Sinclair, tangled in sheets. My face was visible in some of them, blurred with sleep and pleasure. His hands on my skin. My head thrown back. The kind of intimate, private moments that should never have been captured, should never have been seen by anyone.

"Where did you get these?" My voice came out as a whisper.

"Someone delivered these photos to our door today!" Mrs. Ashford's cane hit the floor with a sharp crack. "You and some random man in a hotel room, rolling around like animals! You filthy little slut—you've disgraced the Ashford name!"

"Mrs. Ashford, Elara didn't—" Margaret tried to speak, her voice hoarse.

"How DARE you talk back?!" Mrs. Ashford's face went purple. "The photos are right here—are you saying someone's framing your precious daughter?! A barren hen and a shameless whore—what kind of karma brought trash like you into this family?!"

She raised her cane.

I saw it coming. Saw the arc of it swinging toward Margaret's already bleeding head.

I threw myself forward, wrapping my arms around my mother, turning my back to Mrs. Ashford.

The cane hit my shoulder blade with a sickening crack. Pain exploded across my back, white-hot and all-consuming. I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to give her the satisfaction of hearing me scream.

"Elara!" Margaret's hands clutched at me, her whole body shaking. "Does it hurt?"

I shook my head, even though tears were streaming down my face. Even though I could barely breathe through the pain.

This was nothing. This pain was nothing compared to what Margaret had endured for twenty years in this house. The daily humiliations, the constant abuse, the way Mrs. Ashford had ground her down year after year until she'd learned to kneel without being asked.

"Get up." Mrs. Ashford's voice was cold now. "Both of you. Get out of my sight before I—"

A sound from the corner made us all turn.

The television. It had been on this whole time, playing the local news on mute. Now the volume was up, and a reporter's voice filled the room.

"Breaking news this morning—Damien Sinclair, CEO of Sinclair Industries, was photographed with an unidentified woman in a hotel suite at The Plaza Hotel. Sources say the room was in complete disarray, with clothing scattered everywhere. The woman's identity remains unknown, but speculation is already—"

The screen filled with photos. The same photos scattered across the floor. My face, pixelated but still recognizable. Damien's back, his shoulders. The rumpled sheets.

The whole world was seeing this.

The whole world knew.

"This is a goddamn disaster!" Mrs. Ashford snatched up her cane again, and this time there was no stopping her. She brought it down across Margaret's back, then mine, over and over, her voice rising to a shriek. "Your scandal is on the NEWS! Do you have any idea what you've done to this family?! You disgusting piece of trash—GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

I curled around Margaret, taking as many blows as I could. My back was on fire. My shoulder throbbed. But I didn't let go.

"We're not leaving," I said through gritted teeth. "This is our home too."

"Your home?!" Mrs. Ashford laughed, high and hysterical. "You think you have a home here? You're nothing but charity cases! Orphan trash I never wanted in the first place!"

The cane came down again.

And again.

And again.

I lost track of how many times she hit us. Lost track of everything except the pain and Margaret's quiet sobbing against my shoulder and the sound of the news anchor's voice droning on about scandal and disgrace.

Then—

"Mother!"

The front door slammed open. Heavy footsteps crossed the room.

I looked up through tears and pain to see Mr. Ashford—Margaret's husband, the man who'd stood by and let his mother abuse his wife for two decades—standing in the doorway.

For one desperate, foolish moment, hope flared in my chest.

Maybe he'd finally stand up for us. Maybe he'd finally be the man Margaret deserved. Maybe—

"Mother," he said again, his voice tight. "What's going on?"