Chapter 394

[ 1,029 words ]

Delia’s POV

The same line again. Always the same line. I stood up so fast the chaise scraped against the floor.

“Keep saying it,” I hissed. “Keep repeating that lie while the world watches the bruises you left on me. Keep pretending while every mother who saw you hit me at that school is ready to testify. You hate the spotlight, Julian. You’ve spent your entire life hiding from it. Well, congratulations. I just dragged you into the center of it, and I am not finished p>

He was quiet for so long I thought he had hung up. Then his voice came back, lower, colder.

“Come to the dinner if you don’t want to humiliate yourself further. Or stay away and watch from the screens like everyone else. Either way, tonight the truth comes out. And when it does, no amount of tears or carefully placed bruises will save you p>

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone for three full seconds, then hurled it across the room. It hit the marble fireplace, and the screen spiderwebbed. I didn’t care. I already had three backups.

My hands were shaking. Not from fear. From pure, undiluted rage.

He still thought he could control the narrative. He still thought he could stand in front of whatever carefully selected audience he had invited and simply declare some other woman his wife, and the world would nod and move on.

He had no idea how thoroughly I had poisoned the well. Every camera in the city was already pointed at him with disgust. Every headline already painted him as the villain who slapped his wife and claimed a child that wasn’t his. If he tried to announce another woman tonight, the backlash would bury him.

I walked to the mirror and studied my reflection. The bruises were perfect. Dark enough to photograph well, fresh enough to still look painful. I touched the worst one and hissed for practice. Good. The pain was still real. That would help the performance.

I called my lawyer again.

“Is everything filed p>

“Yes. The separation papers hit the system twenty minutes ago. I leaked them to the same three journalists. They’re already running with it p>

“Good. I want a statement ready the second he opens his mouth tonight. Something about how the abused wife was forced to watch her husband publicly replace her. Make it devastating p>

“Already drafted p>

I hung up and moved to the closet. The ivory silk blouse from earlier was wrinkled. I stripped it off and chose a soft black dress that made the red marks on my face stand out like accusations. Minimal jewelry. No wedding ring. Let them notice its absence. Let them write about it.

My father’s butler knocked once and opened the door.

“Miss… the car is ready. And there are seven news vans at the gates. They’re asking if you’ll give another statement before you leave p>

I smiled at my reflection.

“Tell them I’ll speak to them on the steps. And tell the driver to take the long way. I want every camera in the city to follow me to that dinner p>

I picked up a new phone, checked my makeup one last time, and walked downstairs with my head high and my bruises on full display.

The moment the front doors opened, flashes exploded. Microphones were shoved toward my face. Voices shouted my name from every direction.

“Delia! Delia, is it true Julian is announcing another woman as his wife tonight p>

“Will you confront him at the dinner p>

“How do you feel about the child he claimed in public p>

I stopped on the top step, let the cameras drink in every mark on my face, and spoke in the soft, broken voice that had already won me the city.

“I am still Mrs. Julian Windsor,” I said clearly. “I was his wife this morning when he put his hands on me in front of children and called another woman’s son his own. I will still be his wife tonight when he tries to erase me. I am going to that dinner. And I am going to look him in the eye while he lies to the world. That is all I have to say p>

I walked through the flashing lights without another word, climbed into the back of the black town car, and stared straight ahead as the gates opened and the convoy of news vans fell in behind us like a funeral procession.

My phone, the unbroken one, buzzed with a new message from the private investigator.

“Folder delivered. Everything is ready to leak the second you give the word p>

I typed back one word. “Wait p>

Not yet. I wanted to see Julian’s face when he realized the entire city already hated him. I wanted to watch him try to stand up and claim another woman while every screen in New York still showed the video of him striking me and calling that boy his son. I wanted the humiliation to be complete and public and irreversible.

The car turned onto the long private road that led to the Windsor estate. I could already see the glow of lights through the trees. Guests were arriving. Valets in black gloves. Security at the gates looked overwhelmed by the sudden media presence that had followed me here.

I checked my reflection in the dark window one last time. The bruises looked even better under the fading evening light. My eyes were clear. My mouth was steady. I looked exactly like what I needed to be: the wounded wife who had been slapped, publicly discarded, and forced to watch her husband claim a child that wasn’t his, arriving to face the man who had done it.

Julian thought he could announce his real wife tonight. He was about to learn that the only wife the city recognized was the one still wearing his handprints on her face.

I smoothed my dress, took one slow breath, and waited for the car to stop.

The dinner was about to begin. And I was going to make sure every single person in that room remembered my name long after the night was over.

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