Chapter 337
“Respect?” Cailin let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Is that what you call it? Tell me, Hilliard — did you get down on one knee like this five years ago? When you fastened your mother’s ruby necklace around Charla’s neck?”
Hilliard’s anger vanished. His face went completely slack, genuine shock radiating from his eyes.
He slowly stood. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Cailin spat, her voice cracking with old pain. “The day before I left. Charla came to my apartment. She was wearing the Holloway ruby necklace. She told me you put it on her. That it was your promise to her.”
Hilliard looked as though he had been physically struck. He took a step back, shaking his head.
“Cailin,” Hilliard said, his voice raw and bewildered. “That ruby necklace has been locked in a biometric safe at the UBS bank in Zurich since my mother died. I have never taken it out. I swear to God, I have never given Charla a piece of family jewelry.”
Cailin’s mind raced as a sickening realization took hold. Charla had always been obsessed with the official family portraits hanging in the estate’s gallery. She must have hired a master jeweler to forge a replica based on the high-resolution archival photos. The sheer malice of Charla’s long game made Cailin’s stomach churn.
But the damage was already done. The scar tissue was too thick.
“It doesn’t matter if the necklace was fake,” Cailin whispered, her voice trembling. “Your favoritism was real. You still chose to believe her tears over my pain, every single time.”
Hilliard stepped forward, desperate to grab her shoulders, to shake the past out of her. “Cailin, if she lied to you about that — if she built our entire separation on a lie — don’t you see what that means?”
“It means I was a fool,” Cailin countered, her voice ice. “And you let me be one. Why didn’t you ever tell me? Why didn’t you deny it then?”
“Because you never asked.” Hilliard’s voice cracked with rare, raw agony. “You never confronted me. You just looked at me with those dead eyes and vanished. You sentenced me without a trial, Cailin.”
Knock, knock.
The heavy oak door swung open. Gavin stood in the doorway, keeping his eyes on the floor.
“Sir,” Gavin said. “Mr. Preston is beginning the presentation of tributes in the main hall. He expects you both at the front table.”
Hilliard closed his eyes and let out a ragged breath, forcing his emotions back into their iron box. He reached down, picked up the emerald bracelet from the sofa, and snapped the velvet box shut. He shoved it into Cailin’s small clutch purse.
“Put your mask back on,” Hilliard ordered, his voice returning to its cold, executive deadpan. “We have a war to fight downstairs.”
Cailin turned to the mirror. She smoothed her hair, locked her jaw, and buried the revelation deep in her chest. When she turned back and took Hilliard’s arm, they were the perfect, untouchable power couple once again.
The main ballroom had been rearranged. The center of the dance floor was now occupied by a long, velvet-draped display table.
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