Chapter 9 Aftermath

CHAPTER NINE

Adaline ran. Tears blurred her vision as she fled down the corridor, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure the walls could hear it. She didn't dare look back. All she wanted was the safety of the small room that had already begun to feel like her only refuge.

She didn't notice Camilla at first. Camilla noticed her.

She stood at the edge of the hallway, watching as Adaline rushed past, eyes red, hands clutching her dress as though it were the only thing holding her together. A slow, satisfied smile curved Camilla's lips.

So he dealt with her, she thought. Good.

Turning on her heel, Camilla headed back toward the study, already planning how she would make it up to Ronan now that the nuisance had been put in her place.

Adaline reached her room and shut the door behind her, locking it with trembling fingers.

The moment it closed, she broke. She slid down to the floor, sobs ripping out of her chest as she buried her face in her hands. Her whole body shook as the memory replayed over and over, his voice, the command, her shaking hands as she had obeyed without thinking.

She hugged herself tightly, nauseous at the thought of how close she had come to standing exposed before him.

Why did I fall asleep?

Why didn't I remember the rules?

She blamed herself entirely. It hadn't even been three days. Three days and she was already failing. Already drawing attention. Already standing at the edge of punishment she'd been warned about.

The torture room.

The word alone made her stomach twist violently. She wiped her tears roughly, breathing in shallow gasps as she forced herself to calm down. Crying wouldn't save her. Mistakes wouldn't be forgiven.

"I won't do it again," she whispered to the empty room, more a vow than a prayer. "I can't."

Because in this house, one more mistake could cost her everything and she's not ready to bear the consequences.

The study room

Ronan stood alone in the study, loosening the cuffs of his shirt with practiced ease. His face remained expressionless, as though nothing that had happened moments ago had left a mark. He adjusted his sleeves, then his gaze drifted downward.

The book lay on the floor.

He bent, picked it up, and turned it once in his hand. A novel, worn at the edges, its pages slightly creased. He didn't know he owned such book. He didn't open it. He only set it back on the desk, neatly, as though restoring order could erase what had disturbed him.

The door opened behind him.

Camilla entered like she owned the room. She moved toward him confidently, heels clicking softly, a smile already playing on her lips. "Ronan," she murmured, reaching for his shirt, fingers sliding toward the buttons as she leaned in, her voice sweet, coaxing.

He caught her wrist.

"Stop."

The single word cut cleanly through the air.

Camilla blinked, surprised. "What is it?" she asked lightly, trying to laugh it off. "We were interrupted earlier. By that... thing."

She leaned closer again, lowering her voice. "Maybe you don't want to stay here anymore. She dirtied the place with her presence anyway." Her lips curled slightly. "We could go to your room. Not the usual one. The private wing."

Ronan's grip tightened just enough to make his refusal unmistakable.

"I'm no longer interested," he said flatly. "I have work to do."

Camilla stared at him, disbelief flashing across her face. "You're serious?"

He released her wrist and turned away, already dismissing her. "Call my bodyguard," he added calmly. "He'll escort you home."

Her voice sharpened. "You're sending me out?"

Ronan didn't answer. He simply turned his back to her.

The silence stretched, long, humiliating. Camilla stood there for what felt like forever, waiting for him to change his mind. He didn't.

Her hands clenched into fists. With a sharp scoff, she spun around and stormed out of the study, fury trailing in her wake.

The door closed behind her.

Ronan remained where he was. The study fell quiet once more.

The whitmores' Villa

Mrs. Whitmore paced the length of the sitting room, the phone pressed tightly to her ear, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

"Tomorrow morning," she said curtly. "I'll be there myself."

She didn't wait for a response before ending the call.

For a moment, she stood still, staring at the blank screen as irritation churned inside her. Barely two months after the old man's death, and the company was already spiraling toward collapse.

Running it into ruins already, she thought bitterly.

The irony never crossed her mind, that she had never truly cared for the company. She had handed everything over to the manager without a second thought, choosing instead to travel, attend luncheons, and indulge in luxuries with her daughter. Boardrooms had never interested her. The money had.

Her daughter, seated elegantly nearby, looked up. "What's going on, Mother?"

Mrs. Whitmore exhaled sharply. "The company is in trouble. Financial trouble."

Her daughter's brows furrowed, then slowly lifted as a thought struck her. "Do you think... this could be Ronan Frost?"

The name hit like ice. Mrs. Whitmore froze. Her fingers tightened around the phone as a familiar knot of anger and unease twisted in her chest. "Hasn't he done enough?" she snapped. "He already took that good for nothing girl."

She scoffed. "I knew she was useless from the start. Maybe he didn't find her important enough anymore, so now he's coming after the company."

Her voice rose with every word, resentment spilling freely. "That man never forgets. Never forgives."

She turned abruptly toward the doorway. "You!" she barked at a passing maid. "Bring me a cup of coffee. Now. And have dinner arranged immediately."

The maid bowed and hurried away.

Mrs. Whitmore straightened her shoulders, resolve hardening her features. "Tomorrow," she said coldly, more to herself than anyone else, "I'll go there and find out the truth."

But even as she said it, a thin thread of fear curled beneath her confidence.

Because deep down, she already knew. Ronan Frost never moved without purpose.