Chapter 393

[ 1,026 words ]

Delia’s POV

I needed ice. I needed a plan. I needed to call every contact, every journalist, and every society-bitter ex-society wife I still had left and start spinning this story before Julian could spin it first. He wanted to announce his “real wife” tonight? Fine. I would make sure the entire city knew exactly what kind of man slapped a woman in front of children and cameras over a bastard he was pretending belonged to him.

In my old bedroom I went straight to the bathroom and flicked on the harsh lights. The woman in the mirror looked wrecked. Beautiful and wrecked. Both cheeks were already darkening into ugly red welts shaped exactly like Julian’s hands. I pressed a cold washcloth to my face and forced myself to breathe through the sting and the rage.

Julian thought he could discard me like yesterday’s newspaper.

Julian thought he could choose Katia and her bastard over me.

Julian thought he could walk away after calmly admitting he was fucking my sister “and so much more p>

He was wrong.

I dropped the washcloth into the sink and met my own eyes in the mirror. The woman staring back was not broken. She was incandescent with fury. And furious Delia Kensington did not lose. Not to her sister.

Not to a cold-eyed little bastard.

And not to the man who had just publicly chosen them both over her in front of half of New York’s elite.

Tonight, whatever announcement Julian Windsor planned, I would be there.

I would stand in the front row.

And if I had to burn the entire Windsor empire down to ashes just to watch Katia choke on the smoke, then so be it.

I smiled at my reflection—slow, sharp, and full of teeth.

Let the war begin.

By four o’clock the entire city was screaming my name.

I sat on the edge of the chaise in my father’s formal sitting room with the television muted and every one of my phones lit up like a Christmas tree. Three different news channels ran the same grainy phone video of Julian’s hand connecting with my face on a continuous loop. The handprint on my left cheek had darkened into a deep, ugly red that looked even better under studio lighting. I had refused foundation for every single interview. Let them see it. Let them stare.

The headline crawling across the bottom of the screen read: BILLIONAIRE JULIAN WINDSOR ASSAULTS WIFE IN PUBLIC OVER CHILD

I smiled.

Another channel had already upgraded it to: WINDSOR WIFE BREAKS SILENCE: “HE HIT ME BECAUSE I QUESTIONED THE BOY HE CLAIMED AS HIS SON”

Perfect!

I had given four exclusive interviews in the last two hours. Soft voice with broken eyes. The exact amount of trembling in my hands that made every female anchor lean forward with sympathy. I told them I had loved him for years. I told them I had stood by him through every scandal, every late night, every cold shoulder.

I told them I only wanted my husband back and answers about the child he had suddenly claimed in public while putting his hands on me. I never raised my voice. I never cursed. I simply looked wounded and expensive and wronged.

The public ate it with both hands.

Social media had already crowned me the victim of the year. Women I had never met were posting black-and-white photos of themselves with the caption “I am Delia.” Hashtags demanding Julian’s arrest trended within forty minutes. One vicious blogger had started a petition to have him removed from every board he sat on. Another account compiled side-by-side photos of my bruised face and the video of him shouting “my son” while striking me and simply wrote, “A man who hits his wife over a child is not a hero p>

I refreshed the comments under my own post for the hundredth time.

He hit her in front of children. Monster!

Protect Delia Windsor at all costs.

What kind of man slaps his wife and then claims some random boy as his son?

Julian Windsor is finished.

I felt a deep, vicious satisfaction settle in my chest. Julian had always hated the spotlight. He avoided cameras the way most men avoided commitment. He built entire floors of glass in his buildings but refused every interview, every charity gala photo line, and every red-carpet appearance that wasn’t strictly necessary for business. He preferred to move through the world like a ghost who signed billion-dollar deals in silence. Tonight the ghost was being dragged into the light with both hands around his throat, and I was the one holding the rope.

My phone rang. Unknown number. I already knew who it was before I answered.

“Delia p>

Julian’s voice was ice. No greeting. No anger. Just that flat, lethal calm that used to make me weak and now only made me want to scream.

I put him on speaker so I could keep scrolling through the hate directed at him.

“Husband,” I answered sweetly. “Have you seen the news? They’re calling you a wife-beater. It’s trending worldwide p>

“What you have done will not stop me from announcing my real wife tonight p>

The words landed exactly as I expected, cold and final. I laughed, soft and sharp.

“Your real wife is sitting right here with your handprints on her face, Julian. The entire city already knows it. You can stand up at whatever little dinner you’ve arranged and say whatever pretty lies you want. No one will believe you. Not after this. Not after you hit me in public and called that boy your son p>

Silence stretched on the other end. I could almost hear him breathing. Controlled. Dangerous.

“You made a mistake,” he said at last. “You involved the press. You involved my son. You will regret both p>

“Your son?” I repeated, voice dripping mockery. “That little boy is not your son. You have no children. And I am still your wife. The papers are already filed. Legal separation. Extreme cruelty. By morning every judge in this city will know exactly what kind of man you are p>

“You were never my wife p>

If you find any errors (non-standard content, ads redirect, broken links, etc Please let us know so we can fix it as soon as possible.