The pill felt like a stone in her stomach. A wave of cramps seized Alessandra's abdomen-too soon for the drug to work, but her body remembered the trauma of the past, the ghost of the pain amplifying the present.
She stumbled, her hand grasping the edge of a stack of chairs to keep from falling.
"You ungrateful little witch!"
Vivian lunged. She wasn't checking if her daughter was okay. She was horrified by the rejection of the billionaire.
"Apologize!" Vivian shrieked, grabbing Alessandra's shoulder and trying to force her into a bow. "Tell him you didn't mean it! Tell him it was a mistake!"
Alessandra didn't have the strength to fight her off. Her vision blurred at the edges.
Suddenly, a large, calloused hand clamped over Vivian's wrist.
With a single, effortless motion, the hand ripped Vivian away and shoved her back.
"Enough."
The voice was deep, gravelly, and tired.
Silas Brandt stepped out of the shadows.
He was Darius's uncle, but he looked nothing like the rest of the polished vultures. He wore a tuxedo that was ten years out of style, his hair was gray and unruly, and he smelled of tobacco and turpentine. He was the family disgrace-the artist who refused the board seat.
"Vivian," Silas growled, standing between Alessandra and her mother. "You are a mother, not a pimp. Act like it."
Vivian gasped, her face turning a blotchy crimson. She shrank back, cowed by the raw truth of the insult.
Silas turned to Alessandra. His eyes were kind. Sad.
"You okay, kid?" he asked softly.
He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. It was warm. It didn't demand anything.
Alessandra looked up at him. In the last timeline, Silas had been the only one who sent flowers to Estella's funeral. He was the only one who had tried to warn her about Ilene.
The dam broke. A single, hot tear escaped her eye, tracking through her foundation.
She leaned into him, just for a second, letting his strength hold her up.
Darius watched them. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
That was his fiancée. Or she was supposed to be. Seeing her lean on Silas-seeing her seek protection from him-ignited a dark, ugly fire in his chest. It was possessiveness. It was jealousy.
He stepped forward, his jaw set.
"She's coming with me," Darius said. "She's unwell. I'll take her home."
Silas looked at his nephew. He didn't blink.
"No," Silas said. "She isn't."
"She is my responsibility," Darius insisted, his voice rising.
"She was," Silas corrected. "Until about two minutes ago when she swallowed a chemical grenade to get away from you. You don't deserve her, Darius. You're just like your father."
The insult landed. The room went dead silent. Comparing Darius to his ruthless, late father was the ultimate low blow in the Brandt family.
Alessandra pushed herself off Silas's arm. She stood up straight, though her legs felt like jelly.
"I don't need anyone to take me," she whispered.
She looked down at her feet. The Manolos were pinching her toes. They were beautiful, expensive cages.
She bent down and unbuckled the straps. She kicked the shoes off.
She picked them up, holding them by the straps in one hand. A thin, almost invisible line of blood traced the arch of her foot where a shard of glass had nicked her earlier, but she felt nothing but the impending cold.
"I'll walk," she said.
She turned and walked toward the service exit. Her bare feet slapped against the cold, dirty linoleum of the corridor. It was freezing. It was hard.
But it was real.
She didn't look back at Darius. She didn't look back at her mother. She walked past the stunned socialites, past the lying maid, and pushed open the heavy metal door to the outside world.
