Chapter 4

Grace POV:

I locked myself in the penthouse, the blinds drawn, my phone silenced. The world outside, with its judgmental whispers and flashing cameras, was a battlefield I couldn't face. Cole was gone, vanished since the auction debacle. His absence was a strange mixture of relief and a gnawing dread. He was always planning, always moving the pieces on his chessboard.

A week passed in a blur of forced isolation. Then, the summons came. Arlan Nixon, Cole's father, demanded my presence at the annual Nixon Family Thanksgiving dinner. It wasn't an invitation; it was an order, delivered by a stern-faced aide. I knew what it meant: another public spectacle, another opportunity for them to exert their control.

Cole reappeared just hours before the dinner, acting as if nothing had happened. "Grace, darling, are you ready? You look... pale." He tried to touch my cheek, but I flinched away. He pretended not to notice. "About the auction... a terrible misunderstanding. I'll sort it out, I promise." His words were smooth, empty.

I was too tired to argue. Too tired to even pretend to care. I just nodded, a puppet on his strings.

The Nixon estate was a fortress of old money and colder hearts. As we drove up the long, winding driveway, the oppressive weight of their power settled on me. The air itself felt thin, sharp, like a knife's edge.

Inside, the family matriarch, Cole's grandmother, Eleanor Nixon, sat at the head of the impossibly long dining table. Her eyes, sharp and unforgiving, raked over me. Beside her sat Kiara, radiating smug confidence, wearing an emerald green dress that shimmered under the chandeliers. She was wearing my grandmother's pendant.

"Grace," Eleanor's voice was a brittle whisper, yet it cut through the room like ice. "So glad you could make it. We were worried you might be... indisposed." A sardonic lift of her eyebrow.

Cole, ever the diplomat, stepped forward. "Grandmother, Grace isn't feeling entirely herself after her recent illness..."

Eleanor simply waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. A Nixon woman always puts family first, regardless of ailments." Her gaze lingered on Kiara, a silent endorsement.

I had brought a gift for Eleanor, a rare first edition of her favorite poet, carefully sourced and wrapped. I had spent weeks finding it, hoping for a flicker of approval, a moment of connection.

"Grandmother," I began, presenting the small package, "I know how much you adore poetry. I found this, and I thought of you."

Cole, seizing the moment, took the package from my hand. "Grace has such exquisite taste, Grandmother. She always knows just what to get you." He handed it to Eleanor with a flourish.

Eleanor's thin fingers tore through the wrapping. Her eyes narrowed. Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, was not the poetry book, but a cheap, plastic toy. A child's rubber duck. It squeaked loudly as she picked it up.

A gasp rippled through the room. Eleanor's face, usually a mask of aristocratic disdain, contorted into a furious scowl. "What is this insolence?" she hissed, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. She glared at me, her eyes burning. "How dare you! You think this is a joke?"

My mind raced. The gift. It had been swapped. Someone had replaced my thoughtful present with this crude insult.

Kiara, with a look of feigned shock, stepped forward. "Oh, Grace, how could you? Grandmother, I'm so sorry. I know how much you cherish your poets. Perhaps... perhaps this is what Grace really thinks of you." She then produced a beautifully wrapped package from behind her back. "I hope you'll accept this, Grandmother. It's the first edition you've always spoken of. I managed to acquire it just last week."

Eleanor snatched the book from Kiara, her expression softening as she recognized the rare volume. "Kiara, my dear, you are truly a gem. Unlike some others present." Her gaze, sharp and cold, pierced me again.

The truth slammed into me. This was another setup. Another public execution. Cole stood by, silent, his face carefully blank. He was complicit. He had allowed this. He was enjoying it.

A profound emptiness settled in my chest. I felt nothing. No anger, no sadness. Just a desire to escape. I pushed back my chair. "I need some air."

As I walked towards the door, two hulking figures in dark suits, Nixon family security, stepped in front of me.

"Where do you think you're going, Mrs. Nixon?" one of them asked, his voice devoid of warmth. "Lady Eleanor has not dismissed you. And after that... performance... she believes you need to be reminded of your place."

My heart pounded. I turned to Cole, my eyes pleading. "Cole?"

He met my gaze, then looked away, a subtle shrug of his shoulders. "Grace, you need to respect the family rules."

The world spun. He was abandoning me. Again. He wouldn't lift a finger. This was his plan.

A strange calm replaced the panic. I looked back at the security guards. "Very well," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Lead the way."

They took me to a secluded chamber in the sprawling estate's basement. Cold, damp. A single, bare bulb cast harsh shadows. A heavy leather strap hung from a beam. This wasn't just a threat. This was ritual. This was punishment.

The first lash ripped across my back, a searing fire that stole my breath. I counted. One. Two. Three. Each strike a reminder of their cruelty, their power, their absolute control. But with each agonizing count, my resolve hardened. My plan, my escape, my revenge. That was all that mattered now.

I would make them pay. I would make them all pay.

The pain intensified, a blinding white agony. My vision flickered. I wouldn't break. I couldn't. I had to focus. Focus on the date. Focus on Aegis. Focus on the sweet, sweet taste of freedom.

The world went black. But before I surrendered to the darkness, a single thought blossomed in my mind, cold and clear: They would never hurt me again.