The wind on the main lawn was biting, whipping Herminia's hair across her face. It was a memorial service for one of the company's founding board members—a mandatory event for the Randolph family.
Herminia stood on the periphery of the crowd, wearing a black dress with a high, lace collar. It was stifling, scratching against the tender skin of her neck, but it hid the bruise completely.
Barbara stood near the grave, looking elegant and mournful in a veiled hat. She was holding court with a senator, her hand resting lightly on his arm. It was a performance. Barbara didn't grieve; she networked.
Hunter was standing a few feet away from his mother, talking to a group of investors. He looked immaculate in his black suit. Perfect. Untouchable.
He caught Herminia's eye and stepped away from the group. He walked toward her, blocking the wind with his body. He handed her a bottle of water.
"Drink," he said.
"I'm not thirsty," Herminia muttered, looking at the ground.
A gust of wind caught Hunter's jacket, blowing it open. His tie shifted.
Barbara, who had been watching them like a hawk, stiffened. She excused herself from the senator and marched over, her heels sinking slightly into the wet grass.
"Hunter," she hissed, her voice low enough not to carry, but venomous. "Fix your collar."
Hunter looked down. The top button of his shirt had come undone, revealing the red bite mark Herminia had left. It was vivid against his white skin.
Herminia stopped breathing.
"What is that?" Barbara demanded, her eyes narrowing.
"Insect bite," Hunter said, re-buttoning his shirt with maddening slowness.
"In October?" Barbara scoffed. Her gaze flickered from the mark on his neck to the high collar of Herminia's dress, a flicker of cold calculation in her eyes. "It looks like you've been rolling around with some cheap whore. Have some respect for the family name."
The word whore hit Herminia like a physical slap. She shrank into her coat.
"It won't happen again," Hunter said calmly.
Barbara turned her gaze to Herminia. Her eyes swept over the high-necked dress with distaste. "And you. You look like a nun. That dress is hideous."
"I..." Herminia started.
"I told her to wear it," Hunter interrupted. "That cheap fabric she prefers is an embarrassment. At least this has a respectable neckline."
Barbara's eyes flicked between them. Suspicion darkened her face. She didn't like him defending her. "She's too old to be coddled, Hunter. Speaking of which, I don't like her room being so close to the guest suites. We have investors staying next week."
Hunter didn't miss a beat. "You're right. She should move to the East Wing."
Herminia's head snapped up. The East Wing was Hunter's private sector of the estate. It was isolated.
"The East Wing?" Barbara frowned. "That's your wing."
"It's quieter," Hunter said. "I can make sure she focuses on her studies. And keep an eye on her so she doesn't embarrass us again."
He used Barbara's own prejudice against her. He framed it as control, as discipline.
Barbara considered this, then nodded. "Fine. Move her today. I don't want her cluttering up the main hallway."
Barbara walked away.
Herminia stared at Hunter, horror dawning on her. "You planned that."
Hunter took a sip of his water, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Pack your things, Herminia."
