Chapter 241

[ 966 words ]

Delia’s POV

I stood frozen as Julian escorted Katia toward the table. He pulled out the velvet chair I had set for him and guided her into it, the grey fabric of her prison jumpsuit scraping against the expensive upholstery. He sat in the second chair, leaving me standing in my skimpy red dress like a paid escort who had arrived at the wrong party.

“Delia,” Julian said, his voice cutting through my paralysis. “We need another chair p>

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. I had to walk to the corner of the dining room, drag a heavy, mismatched oak chair across the polished floor, and force it between them. The screech of the wood against the floor was the only protest I was allowed to make.

I sat down, my chest heaving under the tight red silk of my dress.

I watched them. I sat there and watched as Julian picked up the silver fork, cut a small piece of the roasted meat I had ordered from the kitchen, and held it to Katia’s lips. He blew on it slightly, his movements slow, patient, and completely natural, as if feeding a handcuffed woman in a grey prison jumpsuit was something they did every Tuesday night.

Katia opened her mouth, took the food, and chewed slowly.

“The forensic trail on the router logs is almost complete,” Julian said, his voice quiet as he leaned closer to her, his large hand resting on the back of her chair. “Marcus is running the IP traceback now. Whoever uploaded the splice used a WEG secure node p>

“An executive code?” Katia asked, her voice calm, her cuffed wrists resting on the edge of the mahogany table, making the silver clink against my polished silverware. “That narrows the list p>

“Significantly,” Julian agreed, holding another forkful of food to her mouth.

They didn’t look at me. They didn’t even pretend I was in the room. They sat at my romantic table, surrounded by my rose petals and my flickering candles, and discussed the security protocols of their multi-billion-dollar empires while my husband fed her like a child. The intimacy of it was suffocating. It was a private language, a level of connection that I had never, not once in my entire life, managed to access with Julian.

My throat went dry. I tried to take a sip of my wine, but the alcohol tasted like ash on my tongue. The jealousy in my chest was a living, breathing monster, clawing at my ribs until I felt like I was going to scream.

“I’m going to get my plate,” I choked out.

Neither of them answered. Julian was too busy wiping a small drop of sauce from the corner of Katia’s lip with his thumb.

I stood up, my heels clicking violently against the floor as I pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The kitchen was quiet, the staff having already gone to their quarters for the evening. The cold, stainless steel counters and white subway tiles felt like a sterile contrast to the stifling heat of my rage.

The moment the doors swung shut behind me, my composure shattered.

I grabbed the crystal wine glass in my hand and hurled it with all my strength against the wall.

The glass shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, the dark red wine splashing across the white tiles like a violent stain. I let out a low, guttural screech of pure, unfiltered rage, my hands gripping the edge of the counter until my nails turned white.

“When the fuck will Katia learn to fucking stop?” I screamed into the empty room.

She was supposed to be ruined. She was supposed to be in a cell, dirty and broken, while I claimed what was mine. But instead, she had turned my own house, my own dining room, into her playground. She had Julian feeding her. She had Julian fighting the entire state of New York for her.

I took three deep, ragged breaths, trying to stop the shaking in my legs. I wiped a stray tear from my cheek, refusing to let them see me break. I smoothed down the red Chanel dress, picked up a clean plate, and loaded it with food from the warming trays. I was a Kensington. I was not going to let them run me out of my own wing.

I pushed the swinging doors open and walked back into the dining room.

The room was empty.

The candles were still burning, casting their long, flickering shadows across the mahogany table. Katia’s half-eaten plate was sitting there, the silver fork resting against the rim. Julian’s glass of wine was empty on the coaster.

They were gone.

They hadn’t even waited for me to return. They had simply gotten up and walked out, leaving my ruined dinner, my rose petals, and my candles behind like garbage they had finished with.

A red-hot wave of humiliation washed over me. I lifted my plate and hurled it onto the polished floor. The porcelain shattered with a deafening crash, food and grease splattering across the mahogany legs of the table.

“Take this trash out of here!” I screamed at the young housemaid who had just peeked through the door, her eyes wide with terror.

I didn’t wait for her to start cleaning. I turned on my heel and headed directly toward the main corridor.

Julian’s wing.

They had gone to his wing. I knew it in my bones. I walked down the long, silent hallway, my heels clicking like gunfire against the stone floor, my fingers digging into the silk of my dress. I was going to find out exactly what was happening behind those heavy oak doors, and I was going to burn whatever they had built to the ground.

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