Warren Hayes looked as if she had physically struck him. The color drained from his face, replaced by a blotchy, furious red. He surged to his feet, the heavy leather armchair groaning in protest.
"What did you just say to me?" he hissed, his voice trembling with a rage he could barely contain.
Avalon didn't flinch. She met his glare without blinking, her own expression a placid mask. "I said no. I won't apologize for something I don't remember doing."
"Warren, darling, don't be so harsh."
The voice, smooth as silk and just as cloying, drifted from the grand staircase. Lydia Hayes, her stepmother, descended in an elegant silk robe, her perfectly made—up face a mask of counterfeit concern. She glided into the room, placing a manicured hand on Warren's arm.
"Avalon is just... not feeling well," she cooed, her eyes flicking to Avalon with a glint of triumphant malice. "Avalon, dear, listen to your father. It's for the good of the family."
Lydia's "mediation" was like gasoline on a fire. Warren's rage, momentarily checked, erupted anew.
"Not feeling well?" he roared, shaking off Lydia's hand. "She drugged Clay Tate! The Tates could ruin us! They could file charges!"
Drugged. The word landed like a stone in Avalon's mind. Another piece of the ugly puzzle of the last year. She looked at Lydia's flawless performance, her stomach turning. This was the woman who had driven her own mother from this house, piece by calculated piece.
Lydia pressed her advantage, her voice laced with faux panic. "And don't forget her arranged marriage, Warren! If this scandal gets out, the Astor—Vance family will call it off! Think of the merger!"
Arranged marriage? The information was a blow, but Avalon's face remained impassive. They were discussing her life as if it were a business transaction. A liability to be managed.
She decided it was time to drop a bomb of her own.
She looked directly at her father, her voice cutting through his tirade. "I'm moving out."
The declaration fell into a sudden, dead silence. Even Lydia's practiced smile froze on her face. Then, Warren let out a short, harsh laugh.
"Moving out?" he sneered, his face a caricature of contempt. "With what? I've frozen all your accounts. Your credit cards, your trust fund access—everything. You have nothing."
She had expected as much. "That's my problem, not yours."
She turned, her back straight, and started for the stairs, intending to go to the room that was nominally hers.
"You ungrateful—" Warren's voice choked with fury. He snatched a heavy crystal ashtray from a side table, his arm tensing to throw it.
"Warren, no!" Lydia shrieked, grabbing his arm. It was a perfect performance of a concerned wife, but her grip was expertly placed to ensure he couldn't actually be restrained, only further enraged. "You'll give yourself a heart attack!"
Avalon didn't look back. She could feel the heat of their combined hatred on her skin. The pain in her head was a blinding white light now, and her steps felt unsteady on the plush runner of the stairs, but she would not show them weakness. Not now. Not ever again. This house wasn't a home; it was a prison, and she had to get out.
"You are not leaving this house!" Warren bellowed from behind her. "You will stay in your room until you agree to apologize to the Tates! Do you hear me? You are grounded!"
House arrest. A small, mirthless smile touched Avalon's lips, unseen by anyone. He thought he could lock her in. He had no idea who he was dealing with.
She continued up the stairs without a word.
Down below, Lydia was "soothing" her apoplectic husband, her eyes, shining with victory, following Avalon's retreating form. This was perfect. The defiant daughter, pushing her father to the absolute limit. Soon, he would give up on her completely.
