Chapter 392

[ 1,041 words ]

Delia’s POV

The words landed like a third slap.

Never my wife.

The same lie he kept repeating even though I still had the ring somewhere and the last name that used to open every door in this city. Katia had taken all of it. That gold-digging whore had walked into our lives with her bastard child and poisoned everything that was supposed to be mine forever.

I swallowed hard and tried one last time, my voice smaller.

“Julian… so you are fucking my sister p>

He didn’t even blink. “Yes,” he said, calm and final, like he was confirming the weather. “I am. And so much more p>

Then he turned and walked away.

Just like that.

No glance back. No second chance. No softening. He strode toward the SUV where Zane already had Aiden buckled into the back seat. The door slammed with expensive finality. The engine purred like a big cat. The black car pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the long tree-lined drive of Windsor Academy, leaving me standing in the middle of the courtyard with two burning cheeks, a growing crowd of witnesses, and the thick taste of public humiliation coating my tongue.

I stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, both hands pressed to my face. The stinging had turned into a deep, throbbing ache that matched the humiliation pounding in my skull. I could feel the exact shape of his handprints rising on my skin in hot red welts. Someone in the crowd whispered my name like it was gossip already. Another person laughed under their breath, quick and ugly. Kelly was nowhere to be seen. Of course the coward had vanished the second real drama started. Fair-weather bitch. Just like she was texting every mutual friend we had left.

I forced my chin higher. I would not cry here. Not in front of these elite parasites. Not for Julian. Not for that little ice-eyed bastard Aiden. And certainly not for Katia, who was probably waiting at home with her legs already spread, smug and victorious because she had stolen everything that should have been mine by right.

I turned on my heel and walked toward the parking lot, each step deliberate, Louboutins clicking hard and sharp against the stone path. My cheeks still burned. My pride burned hotter. People stepped out of my way like I was radioactive. Good. Let them stare. Let them record. By tonight the entire city would know Julian Windsor had slapped his wife — his real wife — in public over some illegitimate child. Let them talk. I would make sure the story twisted in my favor before he could spin it first.

But underneath the fury, something colder and heavier settled in my stomach like lead.

Julian’s eyes when he said, “My son p>

The way he looked at Aiden like the boy was the only thing on earth that mattered.

The way he said “I am married” with absolute, unshakeable certainty.

And the way he walked away without a single backward glance, as if I were already erased.

He meant every word.

He was fucking my sister.

And he was going to claim her publicly tonight.

I reached my white Bentley, unlocked it with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking, and slid behind the wheel. The leather seat felt ice-cold against my back. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror—both cheeks scarlet, eyes bright with unshed tears of pure rage, and lipstick smeared across my mouth like a crime scene. I looked like a woman who had just been publicly destroyed and was already planning the arson.

I started the engine and peeled out of the academy gates hard enough for the tires to screech. My mind raced faster than the car. I needed a plan. I needed leverage. I needed to remind Julian exactly who I was before he erased me completely from every document, every photograph, every memory.

Delia Kensington, he had called me.

Not Windsor.

Never Windsor again, if he had his way.

I slammed my palm against the steering wheel so hard the sting traveled all the way up my arm. That bitch Katia had ruined everything. She fucked him, and then she had the mansion, the full-year school fees paid in cash, and the public claim, and tonight, according to Julian’s own mouth, she would have the legal title too. Maybe it’s not her; maybe his real wife is back, but I am not losing to Katia!

I would not go quietly.

I would not disappear.

I would not let my sister win.

I drove straight to my father’s mansion in Greenwich, the gilded cage I had been forced to return to after Julian threw me out like last season’s trash. The house felt colder than usual when I parked in the circular drive. Empty rooms. Whispering servants. My father’s disappointed stares that said I had failed at the one job he gave me: keep the Windsor name and the Windsor fortune. People already whispered that Delia Windsor had been cast aside for her own. Tonight those whispers would become screaming headlines if Julian went through with whatever announcement he was planning.

I killed the engine and sat there for a long time, staring at nothing, both hands locked on the wheel. My cheeks still throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I touched the left one gently and hissed. Two perfect handprints. Two public humiliations. And the little bastard Aiden had just sat there in Zane’s arms looking at me like I was less than nothing.

“My dad will make sure you regret everything,” the child had said in that cold, steady voice.

The boy spoke with Julian’s exact brand of certainty. That alone made my blood boil hotter than the marks on my face.

I got out of the car and slammed the door hard enough to make the nearest gardener jump. A maid opened the front door before I reached the top step, eyes going wide at the state of my face.

“Mrs. Windsor—” she started, her voice trembling.

“Miss Kensington,” I corrected coldly, brushing past her. “Apparently that’s what I am now p>

I swept up the grand staircase without another word, heels echoing like gunshots on the marble.

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