Chapter 137

The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves as Lillian hurried across the campus quad. Her phone buzzed incessantly—another message from Donovan. She gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to throw it into the nearest fountain.

"You can't ignore me forever, Lillian."

She exhaled sharply, shoving the device into her pocket. Beatrice would kill her if she saw how many unread texts she had.

A familiar voice called out behind her. "Running late again?"

Lillian turned to see Oliver trotting toward her, his backpack bouncing with each step. The seven-year-old grinned up at her, his dark curls tousled from the wind.

"Your dad's going to lecture me if I'm late dropping you off," she muttered, ruffling his hair.

Oliver shrugged. "He lectures everyone. Even Theodore."

Lillian snorted. The image of the stern butler getting scolded by Sebastian Blackwood was almost too amusing.

As they approached the sleek black car waiting at the curb, the door swung open. Sebastian leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his piercing gaze locked onto her.

"You're ten minutes late," he said, voice low.

Lillian swallowed. "Traffic."

One dark brow arched. "You walked."

Oliver snickered, climbing into the car. "She's bad at lying."

Sebastian's lips twitched, but his expression remained unreadable. "Get in. We have things to discuss."

Her pulse spiked. Things to discuss never meant anything good.

The moment the car pulled away, Sebastian turned to her. "Donovan contacted me."

Lillian stiffened. "What?"

"He claims you're avoiding him."

"I am avoiding him," she snapped. "He's engaged to Victoria, remember?"

Sebastian studied her, his golden eyes flickering with something she couldn't place. "He says you're still his fated mate."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Fate has a terrible sense of humor."

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy. Oliver, sensing the tension, fiddled with his seatbelt.

Finally, Sebastian spoke again. "There's a gala tonight. You're attending."

Lillian blinked. "Since when do I get invited to galas?"

"Since now." His tone left no room for argument. "Wear something appropriate."

She opened her mouth to protest, but the car rolled to a stop outside the Blackwood estate. Sebastian stepped out without another word, leaving her staring after him, heart pounding.

Beatrice was going to love this.

"Father!" Victoria gasped, rushing to his side. "Please, don't be rude to Donovan's family."

"I'm not the one being rude," Sebastian Blackwood growled through clenched teeth.

"It was all a misunderstanding," Margaret Winslow croaked, her voice strained. "We didn't recognize you."

"And that excuses your behavior?" Sebastian arched a brow, his golden eyes flashing with barely contained fury. "Do you address every man who walks through your doors as a call boy? Or am I just special?"

Victoria inhaled sharply, her gaze darting between Margaret and Eleanor Winslow, who stood with her head bowed, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Arabella looked as if she might faint at any moment.

"I'm glad I arrived when I did," Sebastian continued, his lip curling in disgust. "Who knows how much worse this could have gotten?"

"Alpha Blackwood, it was an honest mistake," Margaret pleaded, wringing her hands. "We didn’t realize it was you. Please, don’t take offense."

"How could I not—"

"Father, please!" Victoria cut in, her eyes wide with desperation. "Not here... not like this. Don’t make a scene..."

Only then did I notice the growing crowd of onlookers, their curious gazes burning into us. My cheeks flamed with humiliation. My mother stared at me, her expression unreadable, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet her eyes.

Sebastian looked ready to unleash another scathing remark, but he hesitated. Instead, he straightened his jacket and exhaled sharply.

"I’ll take my leave," he muttered.

"Alpha, you are more than welcome to stay," Eleanor began, but her words were drowned out by a deep, authoritative voice.

"Alpha Blackwood, what an honor to have you here."

I turned to see Archibald Winslow striding toward us, his brow furrowed. A nobleman and supposedly a close friend of my father’s—though after Eleanor and Margaret’s earlier cruelty, I wasn’t sure who to trust anymore.

"Archibald," Sebastian acknowledged coldly. "I was just leaving."

"But you’ve only just arrived," Archibald protested, stopping beside his wife, who suddenly looked impossibly small under his scrutiny. "Dinner is nearly ready. At least let the bartender fix you a drink."

"It seems my presence isn’t appreciated," Sebastian said, his gaze flicking pointedly toward Eleanor.

Archibald’s expression darkened as he turned to his wife.

"What exactly happened?" he demanded, his aura thickening with barely restrained anger. "What did you do?"

"Please, Father. Just let it go. They didn’t mean any harm..." Victoria pleaded, her voice trembling slightly.

"Whatever my wife may have said to you, I’m certain it can be resolved," Archibald said, his piercing gaze still locked onto Eleanor’s face. "I apologize for any discourtesy. Please stay a while longer and enjoy the refreshments."

"It’s alright..." I murmured, low enough for only Sebastian to hear. "You can stay."

He turned to look at me, his eyes narrowing briefly before softening as they met mine.

"I want to take you home," he said quietly, his voice laced with concern.

"I’ll stay for a little while," I assured him. "I just need to clean up."

He studied me for a long moment before giving a curt nod. I didn’t miss the knowing glance exchanged between Eleanor and Arabella, having caught snippets of our conversation.

"I’ll help you," my mother said, slipping her arm through mine. I hadn’t even noticed her approach until she spoke, but her presence was a welcome relief.

I nodded and turned back to Sebastian.

"I’ll see you later, Alpha," I said, louder this time for the benefit of those around us.

He gave me a stiff nod before turning back to Archibald. Their voices faded into the background as we made our way into the Winslow manor and toward the nearest bathroom.

Once inside, my mother shut the door behind us and let out a heavy sigh.

"How could you cause such a scene?" she asked, her tone a mix of exasperation and worry.

"I wasn’t the one making a scene," I muttered under my breath.

She grabbed a hand towel and ran it under warm water before pressing it to the wine stain on my blouse.

"Listen, there’s something you need to know, and I don’t want you to panic," she said, her voice unusually serious.

A knot of unease twisted in my stomach.

"What is it?" I urged, watching her closely.

"I spoke to Donovan’s parents earlier. Archibald went over the details of how much we could get for the house," she explained, her words making my heart plummet.

"Our house?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded.

"It would cover a significant portion of your father’s debts. It won’t be enough to secure his release... but it’s a start," she said, her expression strained.

"If you sell the house, where will we live?" I demanded, my fingers tightening around the towel in my hands.

She hesitated, focusing on scrubbing at the stain rather than meeting my eyes.

"Mom?" I pressed when she didn’t answer.

The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken tension.

She exhaled softly, lifting her gaze to meet mine. Her eyes shimmered with tenderness and regret. "Eleanor and Archibald have offered us their guest room," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

A cold numbness spread through my limbs. "What are you saying?" My words came out sharper than intended, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap. "I mean... we'd be staying here. With the Winslow family."

The air between us grew thick, suffocating. My mind reeled, struggling to process the implications. Living under the same roof as them?

A bitter taste coated my tongue. "You can't be serious."

Her expression crumpled. "It's just until—"

"Until what?" I cut in, my voice cracking. "Until they decide they're done playing house with us?"

She flinched, and guilt immediately clawed at my chest. But the anger—the sheer, blinding betrayal—burned hotter.

The Winslows. The very people who had orchestrated my ruin.

And now, we were expected to live as their guests?

The irony was almost laughable.

Almost.

Because beneath the fury, something far more dangerous simmered.

Fear.

Fear of what this arrangement would cost us.

Fear of what it would change.

And most of all—

Fear that once we stepped through those doors, we might never find our way back out.