Maybe when she carried the Blackwood heir, she thought bitterly, he would finally acknowledge her existence.
"Did you meet Mr. Blackwood?" Charles asked suddenly.
"Yes," she said smoothly. "Mrs. Blackwood mentioned she would come see you soon."
"And where is your aunt?" he asked next, tone clipped.
"She'll be here soon. She went home briefly," Delilah said.
Charles set his glass down with a dull clink. "I don't know why she still has to come around so often. When you were a child, I indulged her. You are a grown woman now. She doesn't have to be here."
The words "Yes, Father" slipped from Delilah's lips with mechanical obedience. Charles Duvall didn't even glance up from his meal; the faint clink of his fork against the china was the only acknowledgment she received.
"You might as well get married and leave," Charles said flatly. "Vivienne can visit you wherever you end up."
Delilah swallowed hard, the food on her plate suddenly tasting like ash. There it was — the subtle dismissal she'd heard her whole life.
"If I may be excused, Father," she said, forcing her voice not to shake. "I have an upset stomach."
Charles merely flicked his fingers in her direction, the gesture of a man brushing away a fly. "Go," he said without looking up, already cutting into the next bite of his steak.
Delilah rose gracefully, controlled. Once outside the dining room, she paused against the wall, exhaling a shuddering breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
He didn't even look at me.
The thought burned as she climbed the staircase to her room. Her father's bloodline, all strength and legacy, yet somehow she was the disappointment, the daughter who wasn't enough.
Inside her room, she walked to the vanity and stared at her reflection.
She pressed her palms to the edge of the vanity and whispered, "I can't stay here."
Not in this house, not in this life.
Eric Blackwood had been her chance — her way out, her way to matter. But then that girl — that nameless imposter had ruined everything. Stolen her moment, her fate.
Her jaw tightened. "She'll fix it," she whispered to herself, thinking of her aunt. "Aunt Vivienne will fix it. She always does."
The storm outside cracked suddenly, lightning slicing the night sky open. "And when she does… Eric will see me."
*****
Down at the Blackwood estate, the storm clouds were already gathering — thick, heavy, and impatient. The air carried the metallic tang of impending rain. Eric sat across from his mother at the long dining table.
"I have to go see Mrs. Thorne and apologize to her," Claudia announced suddenly, breaking the fragile quiet.
Eric didn't look up. "You cannot go tonight. There's a storm coming."
"I'm not made of sugar, Eric." She gave a light, dismissive laugh, lifting her wine glass. "A little rain won't melt me."
Eric's gaze dropped to his plate, then to the fork poised in his hand. He sniffed the food — once, twice — his brow furrowing slightly.
Claudia's fork froze halfway to her lips, her sharp eyes narrowing. "What are you doing?" she asked slowly.
Across the table, Eric leaned back in his chair. "I don't trust you anymore, Mum," he said finally. "You're getting rather desperate for an heir. I just don't want a repeat of you putting some weird aphrodisiac in my food, especially now that there's a woman in the room next to mine."
"Honestly, Eric," she sighed. "You make it sound like I slipped you poison."
"Speaking of which, is our guest going to starve to death?"
Claudia dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, pretending not to notice the faint curiosity in his voice. "She should be down any moment," she said airily. "Alice is helping her prepare."
Eric's brow arched. "When you say prepare, I'm guessing you mean seductive enough to catch my attention."
"Whatever works, Eric," Claudia said matter-of-factly, pouring herself more wine.
He smirked. "You know," he drawled, "I could fuck her just to spite you. Spill my seed on the sheets and send them to you."
"Don't forget," Claudia said coldly, "you're speaking to your mother."
"A mother who drugged me," Eric shot back.
"For your own good!" she snapped. "For the good of this family! For the good of your people!"
"My people?" he repeated. "Mother, my people don't need me to fuck a stranger to save them."
"You don't understand what's at stake. The council—"
"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," Eric muttered. The blade of his fork sank deep into the tender meat, releasing a faint hiss of steam — and then it hit him. That scent. Sweet, clean, and maddeningly warm. The wolf inside him stirred instantly, muscles tightening, pulse quickening. His nostrils flared before he could stop himself. She was close.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus on his plate, on the heavy cutlery, on anything but the pull crawling under his skin. His wolf was pacing now, restless. He still didn't understand what all the fuss was about her.
"Sera, sweetie…" Claudia smiled, watching her son from the corner of her eye. Her every move was performance, every word designed to draw blood. "Benedict, dear, please pull out that chair for Sera," she said smoothly, gesturing toward the empty chair beside Eric.
Eric's grip tightened around his fork. Without looking up, he extended his arm lazily and pointed to the far end of the table — the chair beside Claudia. His message was clear. Stay away from me.
Benedict froze halfway to the chair, his eyes darting between mother and son. "Uh…" he began, uncertain.
Sera stood at the edge of the dining room, torn between politeness and panic. The long table stretched before her. She wasn't sure whether to sit, run, or curtsy.
Claudia's sharp glare cut across the room, freezing Benedict in place. The man immediately understood which side of power he stood on. "Of course, ma'am," he murmured, pulling out the chair beside Eric despite the younger man's cold defiance.
Eric didn't flinch, though the muscle in his jaw ticked dangerously. Sera hesitated for a second before finally sinking into the chair, her pulse hammering in her throat.