Chapter 7

Jacquelin's voice pierced through the heavy oak door of the bedroom, sharp and dripping with venom.

"Dara! Get your lazy self down here right now!"

The bathroom door clicked open. Dara stepped out, her face still slightly flushed, adjusting the belt of Donavon's silk robe.

She looked at Donavon, who was staring at the bedroom door with a deep frown.

"That's your mother," Dara said, her voice flat and commanding. "Go deal with her."

Donavon crossed his arms. "Jacquelin doesn't scream like a banshee. She's a Monroe. She has class."

Dara let out a dark, humorless chuckle. "Go downstairs and see her 'class' for yourself."

Donavon tightened the sash of his lace nightgown. He squared his shoulders, trying to project his usual intimidating CEO aura, completely forgetting he was currently a five-foot-five woman.

He opened the door and walked to the edge of the second-floor balcony, looking down into the grand foyer.

Below, Jacquelin was pacing furiously. Several expensive evening gowns were thrown carelessly onto the marble floor. Three maids stood against the wall, trembling.

Jacquelin looked up and locked eyes with him.

"There you are, you useless parasite!" Jacquelin shrieked. "The charity gala is in two days, and none of my dresses are pressed! What exactly do you do all day besides leech off my son?"

Donavon stood frozen at the top of the stairs. His stomach dropped.

He had never heard Jacquelin use language like this. Around him, she was always soft-spoken, elegant, the picture of old-money grace.

Jacquelin took his silence for her usual submissive fear. She stomped up the sweeping staircase, her heels clicking aggressively until she was standing right in front of him.

She raised a hand with blood-red nails and jammed her index finger hard into Donavon's collarbone.

The physical strike sent a shockwave of pure, lethal instinct through Donavon's brain. His eyes went dead and black.

Jacquelin didn't notice the shift. She leaned in, her breath smelling of bitter coffee.

"You are nothing but a barren waste of space," she hissed. "Adalynn is back. Donavon is going to throw you out like the trash you are, and I am going to throw a party the day you leave."

Donavon stared at her. The words echoed in his ears.

A sickening realization washed over him. This was what Dara had been living with for three years. This suffocating, vicious abuse, happening right under his roof, while he ignored her.

A violent, burning rage ignited in his chest. Not because he was being insulted, but because he had been blind.

Jacquelin saw the icy, unyielding glare in her daughter-in-law's eyes. A flicker of unease crossed her face.

To reassert her dominance, Jacquelin raised her hand high, aiming a vicious slap right at Donavon's cheek.

The moment her hand descended, Donavon reacted.

In a flash of pure, unadulterated instinct, he violently threw his left hand up. He snatched her descending wrist mid-air with shocking, desperate force. The sudden, brutal grip dug deep into her skin, fueled by nothing but raw anger.

The sudden movement yanked the burned skin on his right hand. A sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips, but he didn't let go. He squeezed harder.

Jacquelin let out a high-pitched squeal of pain. "Let go of me! You're hurting me!"

Donavon leaned in close, his voice dropping into a terrifying, lethal whisper. "Keep your hands off me."

Jacquelin's eyes widened in absolute horror. She couldn't comprehend how this weak, pathetic girl suddenly had a grip like iron.

Down the hall, a guest room door swung open.

Keven stepped out, rubbing his eyes. He saw the scene at the top of the stairs.

"Hey!" Keven roared, his face turning red. "You crazy bitch, get your hands off my mother!"

He balled his hands into fists and charged down the hallway, aiming straight for Donavon.