A sneer tugged at the corner of her lips. "Yeah, so what if I'm smiling?"
Selena reeled back as if Veyra had just spit in her face. And to be fair, her expression probably looked just as disrespectful.
Not just her—even Leander and Sierra, who'd been watching with smug satisfaction from the sidelines, stiffened like they had been smacked in the face.
Selena regained her composure quickly, though. Pride was a hell of a drug. She stomped forward, her voice shrill enough to peel paint. "What did you say?!"
Veyra didn't flinch but she covered her ear.
"I said," she enunciated, "if you don't back up and shut the fuck up, I'm going to slap you so hard it's going to affect your precious daughter."
A full beat of silence.
And then—
Gasps. Several people covered their mouths like they were watching a daytime soap spiral into a late-night scandal. Others didn't even bother hiding their phones anymore.
Leander stepped forward like a rabid dog ready to defend his alpha, but Selena threw an arm out to stop him. Her eyes burned. "It not only seems that the dive you took in the water messed with your head, you ungrateful little thing," she seethed, "but the slap I gave you didn't teach you a lesson either."
She raised her hand again, clearly aiming for Veyra's other cheek, already anticipating the satisfying crack.
But this time, Veyra caught her wrist mid-air.
And threw it aside like it was a used tissue. "Slapping me as much as you wanted? That was in the past. You won't ever get to slap me again in your fucking life."
The silence was deafening.
Her eyes slid to Sierra. "Oh, and one more thing," she said, voice dropping. "I didn't push her into the pool. She fell in by herself and framed me. I tried to save her. That's when I slipped. Hit my fucking head on the edge. Hope you see the wound."
Her gaze sharpened, voice edged with dark humor. "But I know saying this won't mean a fucking thing to you. Even if you were to see it with your own eyes, you'd twist it into a reason to blame me. So I won't bother trying to prove myself to people who wouldn't recognize the truth if it kissed them on the mouth."
With that, Veyra shouldered past both Selena and Leander—hard enough to make Selena stumble back a step—and walked straight toward Sierra.
Sierra, still wrapped in a blanket and faux fragility, blinked at her in disbelief, mouth parting like she couldn't believe Veyra would dare talk to their mother like that and approachThe her. Her acting module hadn't yet processed the update.
That delay was all Veyra needed as she lifted her arm.
SLAP.
The crack echoed like a whip, Sierra's head snapping violently to the left.
A stunned silence fell. Sierra touched her face, expression frozen in confused horror.
Then—
SLAP.
A backhand. Harder. Enough to send her reeling sideways, her blanket dropping and her balance giving out. She stumbled back with a choked squeak of pain, landing hard on her tailbone, hair spilling over her face like curtains over a broken window.
Veyra stared down at her with the calm detachment of someone throwing out rotten food.
"Did you like that, dearest sister?" Her voice dripped sweet venom. "I hope you did. Because this won't be the last. In fact—let's do a little math. Multiply every slap I've gotten since I was dumped in the Wrenford mansion because of you—by two. That's your tab."
Sierra's hands trembled as she pushed herself up, fury lighting her face—but Veyra had already turned her back.
She walked to the nearby lounge, plucked up two towels—one large, one small—wrapped the bigger one around herself and tossed the smaller over her head, drying her hair.
She didn't look back.
Didn't need to as she felt the stares.
And then she walked straight through the crowd—parting them like the Red Sea—as silence followed in her wake.
Veyra retrieved Erisia's handbag from where she'd left it near the dome, the towel still clinging damply to her shoulders. Without sparing the party a final glance, she walked away, her steps hurried and uneven as she made her way around the mansion and through the wide yard that separated it from the gates—two hundred meters at least, maybe more.
By the time she reached the mansion's front gates, she felt hollowed out. Not just physically, from the blood loss and the hard blow to her skull, but mentally. Like every thread holding her together had been yanked one by one until all that was left was… exhaustion.
She sighed, pausing to take in the quiet expanse of the luxury estate, the empty roads stretching in either direction, not a single car in sight. Leaning against the stone wall, she dug into the purse and found Erisia's phone, her card, and a few crumpled hundred-dollar bills.
With a deep, slow breath, she let her eyes close—just for a second. Her temples throbbed like a slow drumbeat under water.
The phone unlocked with facial recognition, but the brightness of the screen made her squint. Navigating the app was torture with the headache building behind her eyes, but she managed to order a cab.
Only problem? The driver couldn't enter the estate. She'd have to walk to the main road.
Bracing herself, Veyra peeled off the wall, blinking past the dizziness and shaking the weakness from her limbs like a drunk trying to sober up. Step after step, she followed the road Erisia's memories traced from earlier—when the car had first driven her here.
By the time she reached the main road, her shirt clung to her skin like glue, the towel doing nothing but soaking in more cold. Cars sped past. She looked around. No sign of the white Mercedes cab yet.
If she wasn't soaked and seconds from crumbling, she might've actually spared a thought about the absurdity of a luxury car being used as a cab in this novel world. But she wasn't. So she didn't.
Instead, she slumped onto the sidewalk with a groan, legs folding beneath her. The breeze hit her like glass—cutting cold—but it helped dry her clothes a bit. And freeze her teeth off.
When the cab finally rolled up, she forced herself to stand and slid into the back seat like her bones were made of soaked bread.
"To the nearest pharmacy store. But…" She paused to swallow down the lump in her throat. "But if you see a clothing store, please tell me. Thank you." Her voice was weak, scratchy. She leaned against the seat, eyes fluttering shut before the driver could say a single word.
He let out a quiet sigh, started the car, and drove.
It took longer than expected. The Altheorn estate was one of those ridiculously upscale places tucked deep in the borough, far from where normal humans lived—or shopped.
Luckily, they found a clothing store. Even better, a pharmacy stood just a few steps away.
Veyra handed over cash with trembling fingers and walked into the store like she had full control of her legs, like she was fine.
Almost twenty minutes later, she exited in dry loungewear. Her wet clothes and towel now stuffed into a disposable store bag. She made it a few steps away before she gave in, slumping against the wall.
Her head pounded in a way that no painkiller could touch—like her brain was swelling against her skull. Her vision pulsed at the edges. The dizziness had evolved into full-blown vertigo.
Her memories of what had happened—the edge of the pool, the slippery tile, the water rushing over her—looped and stabbed her skull again. A concussion was almost guaranteed. She'd been bleeding, for fuck's sake. And now she could barely stand.
"Fuck. Shit," she hissed between gritted teeth, clutching her forehead. If she could, she wished she could go back and slam both that mother and daughter's heads into the same goddamn pool edge. Let them feel the pain she was fucking feeling.
They will certainly have to pay, and the consequences will be severe.
She pushed herself upright and began to walk, dragging herself toward the pharmacy, one hand braced against the wall.
She didn't make it past three steps before her body gave out.
The ground tilted. The world spun.
She collapsed.
It wasn't graceful—her legs buckled like folding chairs, her body dropped with a dull thud against the concrete. Her breath left her in a short, pained gasp. The edges of her vision closed in like curtains drawing shut, and all she could hear was the dull thump of her heartbeat behind her ears.
"Hey! Miss!" a startled male voice called out through the static buzzing in her head.
"That young woman just fainted."
She tried to stay awake—gods, she tried. Her fingers twitched. Her mouth parted. But she couldn't.
"Miss, what happened? Don't worry, I'll take you to the hospital." The man was closer now. A hand touched her shoulder. The warmth of it cut through the cold sweat clinging to her skin.
Her eyes, barely slitted open, caught the blur of a black suit, a black tie, crisp white shirt beneath it, and leather shoes.
No one else moved. They never did. People saw a girl crumple in public and only exclaimed while some quietly watched. As if fainting were contagious.
She was lifted. Her body groaned in response, muscles spasming weakly, blood rushing to her head in a dizzy lurch. But she couldn't fight it. She didn't even have the strength to flinch. Her head lolled against the man's shoulder as he carried her like she weighed nothing.
The man moved toward the sleek black Rolls-Royce parked discreetly by the curb.
He paused by the open rear door. The passenger seat was vacant. As he gently placed her into the seat, the phone in his inner jacket pocket buzzed.
With one hand still cradling her, he pulled the phone out and accepted the call.
"Yes, ma'am," he said softly into the receiver.
A pause.
"It's been taken care of, ma'am."
Another pause, slightly longer this time. His tone dropped even further, quiet but resolute. "Do not worry. I will be there till the end."
"A lady fainted by the road and I'm taking her to the hospital, Ma'am."
"Once I'm done, I will go there straight."
He ended the call quickly, slid the phone back into his pocket, and let out the faintest exhale. His jaw clenched. He briefly showed a flicker of fluster in his expression, but he quickly masked it as he looked down at her, noticing the wound on her forehead and wondering what had happened to her.
She was wearing a thin, pale beige T-shirt—one of those soft cotton blends that clung lightly to the skin, clearly bought for comfort. The fabric was already damp with sweat and a lingering chill from earlier. Her joggers were navy, high-waisted with a faded stripe down the sides, cinched loosely at the ankle.
Carefully, the man leaned into the car and shifted her further into the back seat, adjusting her head to rest against the upholstery so it wouldn't jolt with the ride.
Then, without skipping a beat, he turned on his heel and jogged back to where she'd dropped her things.
A small purse and a disposable white bag stuffed with what looked like a towel and some damp clothes. A streak of wetness had already begun to bleed through the bottom of the bag, darkening the paper.
He knelt to pick them up. Then he walked briskly back, opened the front passenger door, and placed the bags there, careful not to spill anything.
Closing the door with a click, he straightened his jacket, adjusted his sleeves with a small flick, and got into the driver's seat.
With one last glance in the rearview mirror—her head tipped against the seat, eyes closed, breathing shallow—he started the car.
And drove off.