Chapter 7

Jillian POV

Damian cried out, his hands flying to his head, clutching the gushing wound. His eyes, still glazed with a drug-induced haze, flickered with a brief, agonizing moment of clarity. He stared at me, his gaze a mixture of pain, confusion, and a dawning, terrible realization. The shock of my violent rejection, the sight of his own blood, seemed to pierce through the fog.

"Jillian," he rasped, his voice rough, thick with pain and bewilderment. He struggled to find words, his mind reeling. He was confused, not just by the blow, but by my utter repulsion, my cold, unwavering stare. He had expected anger, perhaps, but not this chilling indifference, this visceral recoil. A new, unfamiliar irritation sparked within him, a feeling of chaotic discomfort that had nothing to do with the physical ache in his head.

"Don't speak," I said, my voice flat, cutting him off before he could utter another word. "Get dressed. We're going to the hospital." I didn't touch him. I didn't help him. I simply stood there, watching him with detached composure, my heart a block of ice in my chest.

He stumbled, dazed, towards his closet, pulling on clothes with clumsy, pain-racked movements. I called an ambulance, gave them the address, and then waited, my gaze fixed on the wall, refusing to meet his eyes. When the paramedics arrived, I explained the situation with clinical precision, omitting any personal details. I ensured he was taken to the emergency room, signed whatever forms were necessary, and then, without a single backward glance, I walked away.

I didn't visit him. Not once during his entire hospital stay. The hospital called, his assistant called, even Hildegarde called, all trying to get me to check in on him. I politely deflected every single call, claiming illness, exhaustion, anything to maintain my distance. I was done. Completely, irrevocably, done.

My days were a methodical process of dismantling my old life. I packed my meager belongings, the few things that truly mattered to me, into a single suitcase. Then, with a chilling sense of finality, I began to systematically sell off every single piece of expensive jewelry, every luxury gift Damian had ever given me. Each sale was a symbolic cutting of a cord, a severing of ties. The diamonds, the emeralds, the designer bags-all transformed into cold, hard cash, deposited into a new, anonymous bank account. I wanted no trace of him, no reminder of the gilded cage I had lived in.

The day of Hildegarde's birthday gala arrived, a week after Damian's hospitalization. It was a grand affair, as always, a glittering display of wealth and power. Damian was there, impeccably dressed, a bandage discreetly hidden beneath his perfectly styled hair. He was the center of attention, the prodigal son back in his rightful place.

And then there was Aida. She reveled in the spotlight, flitting from guest to guest, her every movement a calculated performance of fragility and charm. She even had her own personal maid trailing behind her, carrying her dainty purse, a blatant flaunting of her newly elevated status. Whispers rippled through the old-money crowd, eyes subtly rolling at her brazen display, but Damian, ever oblivious, hovered protectively around her, seemingly blind to the subtle disdain of his peers.

I entered the ballroom on Hildegarde's arm, dressed simply but elegantly, a quiet specter amidst the opulence. I blended in, a stark contrast to Aida's flamboyant exhibition.

Later, as the giant cake was wheeled out, Hildegarde, with a tight smile, motioned for Damian and me to stand beside her, a final, desperate attempt to present a united front, to mend the irreparable cracks in her family's facade. I stood there, rigid, my gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet Damian's eyes, refusing to acknowledge his presence. He tried to catch my gaze, to say something, anything, but I was a stone wall.

Hildegarde sighed, a sound of weary resignation. She knew. She had seen the finality in my eyes.

After the cake cutting, Hildegarde led me away from the glittering crowd, into a quiet study. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lips trembling slightly as she handed me a thick envelope. Her voice was thick with emotion. "It's done, my dear. The divorce is final. These are your papers, and your shares in the company. A significant stake, Jillian. Enough for you to start anew, to build whatever life you choose."

She squeezed my hand, her voice cracking. "My only request... if, God forbid, the Ramsey family ever faces ruin, if the company is ever truly in peril... will you consider helping us? For my sake? For the sake of the legacy your grandfather helped build?"

Her eyes, filled with a mixture of hope and sorrow, pleaded with me. "You are far more capable than Damian gives you credit for. You are intelligent, resilient, kind. Go, my dear. Build the life you deserve. You have my blessing. You have my love."

Tears streamed down my face, silent and hot. I knelt before her, holding the envelope tightly, bowing my head in a gesture of profound gratitude and respect. This woman, more than anyone else in that family, had seen me, truly seen me. She had been my only ally, my only protector.

"Thank you, Hildegarde," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "Take care of yourself. Please." I rose, clutching the envelope, and walked towards the door, my heart heavy with a bittersweet farewell.

As I stepped out into the manicured gardens, preparing to leave, a smug voice stopped me. "Jilly, darling. Leaving so soon?"

Aida. She stood there, perfectly poised, her left wrist raised, a flash of emerald green glinting in the faint moonlight. A small, exquisite jade bracelet, intricately carved. My mother's bracelet. The one Damian had threatened me with hours ago, the one that had been in her heirloom box with Cristopher's ashes.

My blood ran cold. My jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

"This little trinket?" Aida purred, twirling the bracelet on her wrist, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Damian gave it to me. Said he didn't want any reminders of you cluttering up his life. He said it was your mother's. Oh, Jilly, my love, you should have seen his face when he gave it to me. He was so... eager to be rid of it. You know, he said he wished you had never existed." She laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "Why don't you just disappear, Jilly? Go away. You're a stain on his perfect new life."

My hands clenched into fists, my knuckles white. My entire body trembled with a cold, murderous rage. I wanted to tear her apart, to rip that bracelet from her wrist, to silence her sickening laughter forever. But not here. Not now. Not at Hildegarde's birthday.

I took a deep breath, forcing down the rage, forcing myself to speak in a calm, controlled voice. "Give it back, Aida," I said, my voice dangerously low. "That belongs to me. It belonged to my mother."

She smirked. "Oh, but Damian gave it to me. Finders keepers, darling."

"Give it back," I repeated, my gaze unwavering, my voice taking on an icy edge. "Or I will release the recording of you confessing to framing Cristopher and threatening his life. I have it all, Aida. Every single word."

Her face went pale, her eyes widening in a flicker of genuine fear. Her confident smirk vanished. "You're lying," she whispered, her voice losing its sugary sweetness.

"Am I?" I raised my phone, flashing the screen, the voice recorder icon clearly visible.

Aida shrieked, lunging at me, her hands outstretched, desperate to snatch my phone. "Give me that!"

I sidestepped her, my movements surprisingly swift. As she stumbled past, I grabbed her wrist, twisting hard. She cried out in pain as the jade bracelet, the symbol of her cruel triumph, snapped. I snatched the broken pieces, the sharp edges digging into my palm, but I didn't care. I shoved them into my pocket.

"You bitch!" she shrieked, clutching her now bleeding wrist.

Just then, Damian appeared, his eyes fixing on Aida's bleeding wrist, then on me. "Jillian! What have you done to her?" he snarled, his voice thick with anger.

I met his gaze, my eyes cold and dead. "What have you done, Damian?" I retorted, my voice devoid of emotion. "Giving my mother's heirloom to your mistress? To the woman who murdered my brother?" The word "mistress" seemed to pierce him, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes.

"This is not over, Aida," I warned, my voice a low, dangerous growl. "Next time we meet, the reckoning begins. For everything."

With that, I turned on my heel and walked away, my steps firm, my head held high. I didn't look back. I was finally free.